


Beyond the Darkness

by guppy_mckay



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Courage, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Musketeers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 00:21:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7596058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guppy_mckay/pseuds/guppy_mckay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Losing your life is not the worst thing that can happen. The worst thing is to lose your reason for living." ― Jo Nesbø </p>
<p>When tragedy befalls Aramis, can his friends keep him from spiralling into the darkness?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an Aramis whump story but also a story about the solidarity and bond between these four Musketeers. In truth, the story was originally written several years ago for another fandom but with some rewrites here and tweaking there, I'm hoping it will be an entertaining story in the Musketeer realm. It is unbeta'd and all mistakes are mine. I hope you enjoy it.

**Beyond the Darkness**

**Chapter One**

Scrubbing his tired eyes, Athos looked at the familiar landmarks and gauged the distance to Paris. Standing in his stirrups, he flexed his back and neck and stretched muscles that had stiffened from four long days in the saddle.

The Musketeers had been delivering eviction notices issued by order of the King and, no doubt, encouraged by First Minister, Rochefort. Captain Treville had argued that this was no fit task for members of the King's Musketeer Regiment but, as was happening with greater frequency, the King had sided with Rochefort.

Several yards ahead, D'Artagnan and Porthos rode side by side; the larger man regaling their young brother with tales that grew more daring and more outrageous with every recitation. Turning in his saddle, Athos noticed that Aramis had fallen behind and he pulled back on his reins to wait for him. Though they were all weary, the uncharacteristic slump of the marksman's shoulders drew the older man's scrutiny.

Earlier that morning, they had been caught in an electrical storm and soaked to the skin before they could find shelter in thick woods. Despite the fact that the heat of the sun overhead had been enough to dry their outer clothing, Aramis was shivering so violently that Athos could hear his teeth chatter. As Aramis' horse drew alongside, Athos placed his hand on the younger man's arm.

"Are you unwell?" he asked.

Aramis looked up from under the large brim of his hat and smiled wearily.

"Do not concern yourself, my friend," he replied. "It is nothing a warm bed and dry clothes will not remedy."

They continued onward in companionable silence, arriving at the garrison just after dark. Entrusting their mounts to the stable boys, they slowly climbed the stairs to report to Treville. Athos kept a surreptitious eye on Aramis who looked pale and drawn as he stood shoulder to shoulder with his brothers until they were dismissed for the evening. Then, having worked up a sizeable appetite, the four men headed back down the stairs to the refectory. While the others took a seat at their usual table, Aramis remained standing.

"Gentlemen, I will see you at morning muster," he said, tipping his hat.

"What? You're not eatin' wiv us?" Porthos asked.

"Tonight, I find the promise of a warm bed far more enticing than watching you single-handedly deplete the garrison's food supply," Aramis smiled, slapping his hand on the bigger man's shoulder.

"May we enquire the name of the mademoiselle whose warm bed has robbed us of your company tonight?" the d'Artagnan teased.

"For your information, young Gascon, I shall be sleeping alone tonight," Aramis replied.

"Well, that's a first," Porthos grinned. "What 'appened? Her 'usband come 'ome early?"

"Believe me, my friend, after four days in the saddle, the only bed I wish to warm is my own," Aramis replied, curtly. "Bonne nuit, mes amis."

Porthos frowned at the marksman's brusque reply and watched as he turned and walked toward his quarters.

"Oi, wait up!" the large man called. "We were only jokin'! Aramis!"

When the marksman didn't respond, Porthos turned to the others.

"Something's eatin' at 'im," he said. "He hasn't been 'imself all day."

"Let him be, Porthos," Athos replied. "It has been a long four days. I venture we would all benefit from an early night."

The conversation was terminated by the arrival of the garrison's cook, Serge, who struggled to lift a large pot of his finest stew onto the table. Snatching the ladle from the pot, Porthos scooped a portion of the stew straight into his mouth before looking at his companions.

"Right, I got mine. What are you pair 'aving?"

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0**

Closing the door of his quarters, Aramis struck a match on a piece of flint and lit the small lantern on the table by the window. He watched as the flame spluttered and then caught, casting a soft glow throughout the room. His cold fingers fumbled with the buckles of his various weapons belts before he placed them neatly on the wooden chest at the foot of his bed. Shrugging out of his long coat, he felt the residual dampness from this morning's rainstorm in his breeches and shirt and quickly decided to light the small fireplace so his clothes would dry overnight.

Removing his hat, he felt a pang of guilt about his rather abrupt departure from his friends and carded his fingers through his unruly curls. Usually, he would find humour in their friendly banter but tonight he was tired and couldn't seem to escape the chill that had permeated his bones. He would offer his apology to his friends after he'd had a good night's sleep.

Lighting a candle from the flame of lantern, he proceeded to the wood heater and began to light the papers and twigs within. The fire caught quickly and Aramis rubbed his hands together in anticipation of the coming warmth. An all too familiar aroma drew his attention and his breath caught.

Before he could react, an intense flash of light and heat assailed him and the fire place exploded with a force large enough to shake the building. Caught in the blast concussion, Aramis felt his body picked up and thrown violently across the room. His head cracked against the wall behind him and his body crumpled to the floor as the darkness rushed over him.

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0**

Having quickly demolished his first plate of stew, Porthos stood to refill his plate when the garrison was rocked by an explosion that shattered nearby windows and catapulted assorted debris into the air. Instinctively ducking and drawing their weapons, the Musketeers looked frantically for the source of the explosion; their collective hearts clenching when they saw plumes of smoke billowing from Aramis' room.

Instantly to his feet, Porthos sprinted across the compound at a dead run with Athos and d'Artagnan at his heels.

"Aramis!"

Arriving at the marksman's quarters, Porthos put his shoulder to the door with enough force to burst it from its hinges. Pulling his bandana from his pocket, he held it over his nose and mouth, providing some protection from the thick smoke. Taking a deep breath, he crouched low and ran into the room. His breath was immediately snatched away by the heat and smell of the fire that had clearly been caused by the exploding fire place.

"Aramis!" he called, blinking tears from his irritated eyes.

His calls were immediately echoed by d'Artagnan and Athos, who were frantically stomping on burning embers and using blankets to beat the flames into submission.

"Where is he?" d'Artagnan shouted. "Aramis!"

Coughing and gagging from the taste and smell of the acrid smoke, Athos crouched and breathed deeply from the untainted air closer to the ground. He was ready to continue his search when he saw a body lying sprawled at the far end of the room.

"Porthos! Over there!" he yelled.

Porthos found Aramis unconscious against the wall. Frantically searching for injuries, he ran his fingers over the younger man's head, wincing as his fingers returned coated in his friend's blood.

"Aramis...Aramis, open your eyes," Porthos said, tapping his friend's cheek in an attempt to rouse him.

"There's too much smoke," d'Artagnan coughed. "Get him out of here!"

He steadied the injured man as Porthos lifted Aramis across his shoulders and carried him from the room into the compound where other Musketeers hurried to help.

"Take him to the infirmary," Treville ordered. "I'll send for a physician."

Porthos gently lowered Aramis onto the first available bunk to assess his injuries. In addition to the head injury, the marksman had suffered burns to both hands and small blisters were already forming on his cheeks and brow.

"Come on, Aramis," Porthos croaked with his smoke-irritated throat. "Open your eyes. You listenin' to me? Open your eyes!"

The younger man was as still as a stone effigy and Porthos expelled a groan heavy of frustration and contempt.

_"Where's that bloody physician?"_

"He'll be here," Treville said, as he moved to the bed with two large bowls of clean water to soak Aramis' hands.

Porthos carefully lifted the injured man's head, grimacing at the amount of blood now caked in his hair. Taking a clean bandage, Treville soaked it in water and did his best to clean the nasty head wound and stem the bleeding. The door to the infirmary burst open and Athos and d'Artagnan rushed to Aramis' bedside.

"How is he?" d'Artagnan coughed roughly.

"Still out," Porthos replied flatly. "He's got a nasty 'ead wound and his 'ands are burned."

"What happened with the fire?" Treville enquired.

"Extinguished," Athos replied, not taking his eyes off his unconscious friend. "It appears the wood burner exploded when Aramis attempted to light it."

Treville sighed and shook his head.

"A senseless accident," he said.

"This was no accident," Athos continued pointedly. "It was packed with gun powder."

Porthos shot to his feet.

"What are you sayin'?" he demanded.

"I'm saying...someone tried to kill Aramis."

"That's not possible," Treville stated. "Only Musketeers have access to the barracks."

"Then, it would appear that one of our  _brother_  Musketeers wanted Aramis dead...and very nearly succeeded," Athos replied bitterly.

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0**

Athos leaned languidly against the outside wall of the infirmary. Though his body gave the impression of nonchalance, he was far from relaxed. Watching from under the brim of his hat, his lips twitched in amusement as d'Artagnan thoroughly cleaned and then re-cleaned his pistol. The younger man looked up, meeting Athos' questioning look.

"A wise man once told me – respect your weapon and it will respect you," d'Artagnan explained.

The swordsman's eyes softened, recognising Aramis' words.

"Indeed," he replied before turning his attention to Porthos who was pacing like a caged lion outside the infirmary door.

Patience was not something the larger man had in abundance but it was never more evident than when one of his brothers were injured or in trouble. For several moments, the only noise between them was the creaking of the boards under the large Musketeer's booted feet. D'Artagnan startled and the swordsman raised an eyebrow as Porthos thumped his fist into the wall.

"What's taking so long?" he growled.

"Treville will inform us when the physician has completed his examination," Athos replied calmly.

"I agree with Porthos," d'Artagnan added. "We should've heard something by now."

"I'm not waitin' any longer!" Porthos declared. "I'm goin' in!"

"You will do no such thing," Athos said, using a more authoritative tone. "Treville ordered us to remain here until further notice."

"That's Aramis lying in there!" Porthos growled. "We should be in there wiv 'im."

"We  _would_  still be in there had you not terrorised the physician."

"I didn't terrorise 'im!" Porthos objected.

Athos rolled his eyes and sighed.

"You threatened to tear him limb from limb," he said.

"Well he wasn't workin' fast enough!" Porthos defended. "I still say he should be done by now. Something's wrong and I'm gonna find out what it is!"

His jaw set in determination, Porthos turned purposely toward the door when it swung open and Treville blocked his path eyeing him menacingly.

"I was just…stretching me legs," Porthos told him, unable to meet the captain's steady gaze.

"If you can remain civil," Treville said, looking accusingly at the larger man. "You can come in."

The soldiers shot to their feet and rushed to Aramis' bedside.

Physician Neval Chevallier was a portly man with a balding head and a ruddy complexion. He had been eating a hearty evening meal when two Musketeers knocked urgently on the door to his residence and demanded his presence at the nearby garrison.

Possessed of a highly-strung nature, Chevallier, was quickly overwhelmed by the presence of four Musketeers hovering over his patient and scrutinising his every move. When the largest of them had threatened bodily harm, he demanded the captain clear the room to allow him to work. The physician swallowed convulsively at the disapproving and cautionary looks the three younger men threw his way as they reluctantly moved outside. Now, as the soldier's gathered at the bedside of their injured friend, Chevallier could see the genuine concern etched on their faces.

"How is he?" Athos asked, eyeing the clean white bandages encasing Aramis' hands.

"He sustained some burns to his hands," Chevallier replied. "I have applied a salve and clean bandages which must be changed several times a day to avoid infection."

"Will he lose the use of his hands?" d'Artagnan asked, dreading the answer but needing to know.

"The injury is painful but superficial and should heal well if he follows my instructions," the doctor replied.

Chevallier exchanged a nervous look with Treville.

"What aren't you tellin' us?" Porthos asked, standing to his full height and towering over the twitchy physician.

Chevallier cleared his throat several times before answering.

"As you know, your friend suffered a serious head injury."

" _Aramis!_ " d'Artagnan interjected. "His name is  _Aramis._ "

"Yes, of course, forgive me," the physician stammered. "The wound has been cleaned and stitched but he... _Aramis_  has not responded to the salt of hartshorn or other stimuli."

"What are you saying?" Porthos growled causing the physician to take several rapid steps backward.

Treville glared a warning at the large Musketeer.

"Head injuries are always hard to assess," Chevallier said. "Aramis has yet to show any signs of regaining consciousness."

"It's been hours," d'Artagnan said, worry eking out of every pore.

"He's had harder knocks to the head before," Porthos said, taking a seat next to the bed and placing a comforting hand on the young Gascon's shoulder. "He always bounces back. You'll see."

"You may very well be right, monsieur, but I'm afraid we won't know anything until he wakes up," Chevallier said, gathering his medical bag.

"You're leaving?" Porthos asked angrily.

"It's late," Chevallier replied. "I've left a tonic to give him when he wakes – I suspect he'll have a fearful headache. See that he drinks it; keep him calm and as still as possible. I'll be back tomorrow to check on him but, in the meantime, Captain Treville knows where to find me."

With a brisk nod, Treville led the doctor to the door before turning to his men.

"One of you stays with him at all times until we know what we're dealing with," the captain ordered.

"That won't be a problem," Athos replied.

"I'll be in my office. Let me know when he wakes."

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0**

In silent companionship, Porthos, d'Artagnan and Athos spent the rest of the night in the infirmary by Aramis' side. Between them, they monitored every restless movement or soft, incoherent moan the marksman made, desperately hoping the injured man would regain consciousness. They took turns in watching over their friend, each man gently grasping Aramis' forearm or his shoulder - never breaking contact and silently reassuring him that he was not alone.

Time passed slowly and Athos was lured into the almost hypnotic effect of the steady rise and fall of Aramis' chest. He tried to ignore the stillness of a man who had rarely stopped moving since their first encounter. He shook his head and his lips quirked in a smile as he fondly recalled meeting the cocky, young man. To his surprise he'd found, under the flippant, brash, wise-ass exterior, Aramis was a hell of a Musketeer, a person he could respect and trust with his life and a man he had grown to love as a brother.

The sun sent its early morning tendrils to peak through the shuttered window and herald the arrival of a new day. Porthos rose stiffly to his feet and rolled his shoulders to work out the kinks. He stood quietly beside the bed and placed a gentle hand on Aramis' head.

"At least he had a restful night," d'Artagnan said, looking as exhausted as Porthos felt.

"That makes one of us," Athos quipped.

Noise and movement in the compound outside, signalled that it was almost time for morning muster. Athos caught d'Artagnan's eye and pointed at the injured man with his chin.

"Stay with him," he said.

"Of course," the younger man replied with a set to his jaw that silently vowed that anyone who tried to get to Aramis would need to get through him first.

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0**

Taking up a position in the back row, Porthos and Athos stood side by side, casting their eyes over each of the Musketeers assembled for morning muster. The majority of the soldiers gathered had been part of the regiment for many years and neither man could believe they would have cause to harm their affable marksman.

When Treville had allocated the day's assignments and dismissed the men, he sought out Porthos and Athos and spoke quietly.

"How is he?"

"No change," Porthos replied. "d'Artagnan's wiv 'im."

Nodding his head, Treville continued.

"Are you aware of any issues Aramis may have had with anyone within the regiment?"

The two men shook their heads.

"Aramis is well-liked and well-respected among the men," Athos answered.

"If he was 'aving any problems with anyone, I'd know about it," Porthos stated.

"I will be personally speaking to every man assigned to the garrison during the four days you were gone," the captain said. "But, so far, I am finding it very hard to believe the attack against Aramis came from one of our own."

"One thing is clear," Athos said. "We cannot rest until we have brought his attacker to justice."

"Be on your guard," Treville warned. "If this man learns Aramis survived the attack, he may well strike again."

"Just let 'im try," Porthos growled menacingly.

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0**

Several more hours passed until, finally, Aramis began to show signs of waking. His pale face contorted and he screwed his eyes shut; the deep frown lines announced the presence of a mammoth headache. Noting the younger man's pain, Athos quickly closed the shutters to keep out the light and reduced the flame of the lantern.

"You back wiv us?" Porthos asked softly.

Answering with the smallest of nods, Aramis flicked his tongue over his dry lips.

"Here, drink this," d'Artagnan said, holding a cup of water to his friend's lips.

Aramis took a few sips of the cool substance, sighing as the liquid soothed his parched throat.

"What happened?" he whispered, wincing at the sound of his own voice.

D'Artagnan opened his mouth to reply but Athos shook his head.

"We were hoping you could tell us," he said.

Aramis frowned again, willing his memory to fill in the blanks.

"I was cold," he said. "I couldn't seem to get warm. I tried to light the fireplace and...it exploded!"

"Easy," Porthos cautioned, feeling the tension surging through the marksman's body.

"Is anyone else injured?"

"Only you," Porthos replied. "You put quite a dent in the wall with that 'ard head of yours."

Aramis gave the hint of a smile and tentatively opened his eyes.

"What time is it?" he frowned.

"A little after midday," d'Artagnan replied.

Aramis fisted his bandaged hands in the blankets; his breathing coming in short, sharp gasps. Exchanging worried looks with his friends, Athos placed his own hands over the marksman's to still them.

"You must remain calm, Aramis," he said.

Aramis' heart was hammering as he fought to control his breathing.

"Hey, hey!" Porthos said. "Listen to me...the doc said you're gonna be fine."

Aramis swallowed convulsively trying to find his voice.

"I'm afraid the good doctor is mistaken," he said shakily.

Athos leaned forward and squeezed his friend's shoulder to anchor him.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I...I can't see," Aramis whispered. "I'm blind."

**0--0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0--0oo00oo0--0oo00oo0--0oo00oo0--0oo00oo0--0oo00oo0--0oo00oo0--0**

More to come...


	2. Chapter 2

In the time it took the messenger to return to the garrison with Doctor Chevallier, the marksman's condition had rapidly deteriorated. He groaned as his sickening headache crept up another notch and a wave of nausea crashed over him. He continued to retch and gasp – his body shuddering under the onslaught of pain and his pent-up emotions.

A large callused hand lightly squeezed the nape of his neck and though he was too distressed to recognise which of his friends offered the comforting touch, he found solace in the knowledge that his brothers were nearby.

The physician completed his examination, muttering anxiously to himself and eyeing the agitated Porthos as one would a rabid dog. The Musketeers watched impatiently as Chevallier ground several herbs and added them to a tonic he took from his bag. Pouring a measure into a cup he brought it to Aramis' lips.

"You must drink this," he said.

Aramis turned his head away from the pungent odour.

"Later," the marksman rasped.

"It will ease your pain," the physician insisted.

"Doctor...please tell me," Aramis pleaded. "What of my sight?"

The twitchy physician sighed audibly.

"I'm afraid I do not have an answer," he told them with genuine regret. "Your eyes were not injured in the explosion, Aramis. For all intents and purposes, they are functioning perfectly."

"Except for the fact that 'e can't see!" Porthos blustered.

"Yes...except for that," the physician repeated nervously. "I have heard tales of a blow to the head rendering a person blind but I have never before seen it happen."

Desperate for information, Athos stepped forward.

"These tales of which you speak...do they tell of anyone regaining their sight?" he asked.

"As I said, I have no experience in such matters but, to the best of my knowledge, it is extremely rare for sight to return."

"Rare but not impossible," d'Artagnan said, desperately grasping onto the small glimmer of hope. "This could be temporary?"

"It could be," Chevallier told him. "But overwhelmingly, such injuries result in the permanent loss of sight."

The sound of his own blood pumped furiously in Aramis' ears as he drowned in a deluge of fear and desperation. He buried his head in his bandaged hands and tried to control his panic as the thudding inside his head became unbearable.

"Aramis," the doctor said. "You need to rest. Please, drink the tonic."

Desperate to escape this living nightmare, the young marksman did as he was asked and slumped back against the pillows, shutting out everything as he concentrated on his breathing. Several moments later, the strong pain medication began to make its presence known and keeping his eyes open was just too hard. Aramis let them close and allowed himself to slip into peaceful oblivion.

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0**

The frown and pain lines evident earlier, had smoothed and disappeared with the apportioning of pain medication and Aramis' fingers that had tightly grasped the bed linen were now relaxed in sleep. The marksman now lay insensate on his bed; his lips slightly parted and his skin ghastly pale against his dark hair and lashes.

The physician's words had hit them all like a kick to the gut, stealing their breath and momentarily robbing them of their ability to form the next question. Thankfully, Treville stepped in and spoke the words they could not put voice to.

"There must be something we can we do?" he asked.

"I'm concerned about the severity of his headaches," the doctor replied. "For the moment, it is imperative that you keep him resting and try to keep him calm."

D'Artagnan huffed a laugh devoid of humour.

"Tell me, Doctor, how calm would you be if you could no longer see?" he asked sharply.

Porthos placed a comforting arm around the Gascon's shoulders.

"Easy, lad," the larger man said.

"I will make up more tonic and more salve and bring it back with me tomorrow," Chevallier continued. "But I'm afraid I've reached the limit of my knowledge."

"You sound like you've already given up on 'im!" Porthos said.

"Not at all. But what happens from here depends entirely on Aramis and his ability to adapt to a life of blindness."

"If others 'ave regained their sight," Porthos said. "Why not Aramis?"

"Please understand; there is a very slim that your friend will ever see again. Although you think you are offering support, it is unfair to offer him false hope."

"Surely any hope is good hope," d'Artagnan stated.

"With all due respect, Doctor," Athos said, his gaze falling on the man in the bed. "You do not know Aramis...or his uncanny ability to beat the odds."

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0**

The healing sleep they had hoped for their friend was coming to an end and, as Aramis moved toward consciousness, he mumbled unintelligibly, moving restlessly beneath the covers.

With his large hand still resting gently on the younger man's shoulder, Porthos watched, frustrated and helpless, as Aramis was trapped in his own private hell.

Battling the effects of the tincture, Aramis furrowed his brow, blinking bleary, sightless eyes in a futile attempt to clear his vision. The instant the drug-induced fugue lifted, the reality of his blindness came crashing back down on him and his searching fingers found and painfully taloned around Porthos' forearm.

"Easy, easy," Porthos said softly. "I'm 'ere...we're all 'ere."

Within the space of three deep breaths, Aramis had viciously suppressed his fears and he loosened his painful grip on his friend's arm.

"I thought it all a bad dream," he croaked. "I thought I would open my eyes and my sight would be restored."

Aramis' voice was lifeless but his sightless eyes reflected a myriad of emotion.

"Is it morning?" he asked.

D'Artagnan quickly turned away from his brothers, hiding his distress as the question tore at his heart.

"No," Porthos replied calmly. "It's early evening."

"Have you been here all day?" Aramis asked.

"Do you honestly believe we would waste an entire day watching you sleep?" Athos replied, with a quirked of his lips. "For your information, we were engaged in much more important activities and returned moments before you awoke."

Aramis huffed a laugh – not at all fooled by the swordsman's words and ridiculously relieved to know his friends were by his side.

Having regained his composure, d'Artagnan brought a plate of broth from where it had been warming on the small wood stove.

"You haven't eaten all day," he said. "We kept you some broth."

Aramis held up his bandaged hands.

"Thank you but I'm not sure I could manage."

"Then we'll 'elp you," Porthos said matter-of-factly. "You need to eat somethin'."

Aramis stiffened his posture.

"I would rather go without than suffer the indignity of having you feed me like a helpless child," he told them curtly.

Sighing audibly, Athos rolled his eyes heavenward. Taking the broth from d'Artagnan, he moved his chair closer to the bed.

"I seem to recall a recent trip to Monfort when d'Artagnan was stricken by a debilitating case of influenza," he said. "He could scarcely lift his head from the pillow so you spoon fed him until he regained his strength."

D'Artagnan took a seat on the opposite side of the bed.

"And when Porthos broke his hand on the jaw of the captain of the Red Guard," he added. "You cut his food into bite size portions until he could manage to hold a knife."

Porthos nodded vigorously.

"And then there was the time Athos had his hand sliced open by that bandits rapier and needed so many stitches he couldn't use his 'and for weeks," he said. "You didn't bat an eye about 'elping him with his meals. So...what does that tell ya?"

Aramis bit back a grin that was desperate to escape.

"It tells me that you three, clumsy oafs simply could not manage without me," he quipped before reluctantly allowing the swordsman to feed him.

He managed half a bowl of broth before his pallor and pained expression had d'Artagnan instantly on his feet in search of more of the pain tincture.

"Bad?" Porthos asked.

"Very," came the marksman's honest reply.

D'Artagnan returned and placed a cup containing the tonic to his friend's lips.

"Here," he said. "This will help."

"Will it restore my sight?" Aramis snapped.

The room fell deathly quiet until Aramis broke the silence.

"I apologise, my friends," he whispered. "That was uncalled for."

He took the proffered cup and drank the tonic, grimacing at the bitter taste.

"Aramis-" Athos began but the injured man abruptly cut him off, not yet ready for that particular conversation.

"Athos, please...not now," he said, carding his fingers through his mess of curls as he maneuvered himself lower into the bed. "I am tired. I'd like to sleep now."

When the swordsman positioned his hand on the younger man's wrist, he fully expected Aramis to reject the contact. But his warm, callused fingers provided a lifeline as his friend battled to accept the devastating prospect of being forever without sight.

A short time later the only sound in the room was the crackling of the kindling in the fireplace and Aramis' deep, steady breathing.

Porthos, d'Artagnan and Athos watched their friend's peaceful drug-induced sleep and tried to imagine the devastation of suddenly facing a world without sight.

"Aramis will survive this," d'Artagnan said with certainty. "Be it temporary or permanent, he has strength enough to carry him through."

"His whole life is about sight," Porthos said quietly, never taking his eyes off his sleeping friend. "He's a Musketeer; a marksman, the best in the regiment. This will devastate 'im."

"D'Artagnan is right," Athos replied. "The road ahead for Aramis will not be an easy one. He will face innumerable challenges and adjustments. But, whatever happens, he will not face them alone!"

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo**

The infirmary door creaked open unexpectedly and Porthos, d'Artagnan and Athos turned as one, aiming their pistols and eliciting a sharp gasp from the young woman standing wide-eyed in the doorway.

"Constance!" d'Artagnan exclaimed as he rushed to her side "What are you doing here?"

"I was running an errand for the Queen," Constance replied, her blue eyes misting as she looked to the injured man in the bed. "Captain Treville told me what happened."

D'Artagnan gently pulled her close and placed a chaste kiss on her temple before leading her to Aramis' bedside.

"How is he?" she asked quietly.

"Coping one minute; devastated the next," Athos replied.

Constance nodded sadly. Noting the blush of a fever on the marksman's cheeks, she placed her hand on his forehead.

"He's warm."

"A mild fever," Porthos replied. "We need to change the bandages on his 'ands."

"I'll do it," she told them firmly. "Well, look at yourselves! I bet you haven't even slept, have you? You're of no use to Aramis if you run yourselves into the ground."

"We're not leaving 'im," Porthos stated emphatically.

"You don't have to. Look around you, this is an infirmary. You two can be sleeping while d'Artagnan and I see to Aramis."

Unwilling to leave the bedside of their ailing friend, the three men remained standing.

"Well go on!" she insisted, placing her hands firmly on her hips. "I've enough to do watching over Aramis without having to watch out for you, too."

The twin glares Athos and Porthos aimed in d'Artagnan's direction were met with a sheepish grin and a shrug of his shoulders.

"You heard the lady," he said.

"You'll wake us if he needs anythin'" Porthos said as more of an order than a question.

"Of course," the younger man said.

With one last glance over their shoulders, Athos and Porthos made their way to the beds at the other end of the large room and were asleep before their heads hit the pillows.

As she tendered to Aramis' burned hands, Constance grinned as d'Artagnan struggled to keep his eyes open.

"I'm glad you're here," he muttered.

"I'd have been here earlier had I known," she replied.

"I'm sorry. It's been...it's been difficult."

"It's never easy watching someone you care for suffer," she said, placing Aramis' freshly bandaged hands by his sides and brushing an errant curl from his forehead. Constance's heart ached when she looked into d'Artagnan's anguish-filled eyes.

"I don't know how to help him, Constance," he said sounding completely lost.

Walking around the bed she wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly.

"You're already doing it," she said.

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0**

Constance winced in anticipation of the stiff neck d'Artagnan was likely to have when he woke up. Still sitting in the chair by Aramis' bedside, he had given in to the pull of sleep about an hour ago and she was loath to wake him. These men were King's Musketeers – elite soldiers – and while they looked like they were sleeping soundly, Constance had no doubt that they would be instantly awake and ready to defend their injured friend at the first sign of trouble.

Not for the first time, the young woman wondered how four such diverse personalities could form such an strong alliance. The former comte, the Gascon farm boy, the mighty warrior from the streets and the deeply spiritual but equally deadly marksman - they may not be related by flesh and blood, but their unmistakable bond had been forged in the fires of loyalty and melded into shape by the demands of lives frequently lived in jeopardy.

Aramis stirred restlessly as the pounding of his relentless headache and the sharp twinge of overly tense muscles urged him from sleep. Opening his eyes to darkness, he cursed that his loss of vision and time spent in a drug-induced sleep, made it extremely difficult to keep track of time.

He felt bereft when he realized the comforting hand of one of his brothers was not resting on his shoulder or arm when he woke. He lay still for a moment, trying to isolate the muted sounds around him; the light snoring, the scrape of a chair on the wooden floor, the swish of flowing fabric...he was definitely not alone. He startled slightly when a soft hand rested gently on his forehead and cupped his cheek as if testing for fever. He managed the smallest of grins.

"Constance," he said knowingly.

"How did you know it was me?" she smiled.

"Your perfume," he said softly. "It's my favourite scent."

"You never told me that," she said.

"D'Artagnan would have my hide," he said with a hint of his charming grin.

"Do you need anything?" she asked.

"Water?"

"Of course."

Quickly pouring a cup of water, she placed it in his bandaged hand, not letting go until she was sure he had hold of it. He sated his thirst and held the empty cup for her to take.

"The others?" he asked.

"Sleeping," she said. "They haven't left your side since this happened."

He nodded his head, wincing as it reignited the throbbing at his temple.

"I'll get you some more tonic," she said, returning quickly with the foul tasting tincture.

He swallowed it down and looked in her direction; his sightless eyes filled with hopelessness and despair.

"Aramis?"

His self-control hung by a gossamer thread as he uttered the words he couldn't bare his brothers to hear.

"I can't do this, Constance?" he whispered. "I can't live like this."

Without hesitation she perched herself on the bed and placed both hands firmly on either side of his face, feeling the stubble of a few days growth beneath her fingers.

"You listen to me, Aramis," she said firmly. "We're a family and we're not going anywhere. Whatever you need, whatever happens, we'll get through it together."

She pulled him in for a hug; resting her head on his shoulder and feeling him tremble as he desperately marshaled his emotions. Helping him settle back into the bed, she had just enough time to pull the blanket up to his chin before the tonic ushered him back to sleep. Glancing to her left, Constance saw d'Artagnan's dark eyes watching her.

"How much of that did you hear?" she asked.

"All of it," he replied.

Smiling sadly, he raised her hand to his lips and gently kissed her knuckles.

"Thank you," he whispered, never loving her more than at that moment.

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0**

Laurent Benoit was seated in his usual seat at the back of the tavern staring at the entranceway, as if transfixed. He downed the remaining ale in his tankard, wiping his mouth with his sleeve and growing more frustrated by the minute.

A fishmonger by trade, Benoit was a leanly muscled man in his sixties who had fallen on hard times when an accident on the docks left him unemployed and with a permanent limp. By necessity, he now worked as a handyman, barely earning enough to get by. His lot in life had left him ill-tempered, alcohol dependent and more likely to resolve a dispute with his fists or a filleting knife.

Catching the eye of the barmaid, he ordered another tankard of ale then leaned forward in anticipation as the person he was waiting for made his way to the table and took a seat opposite.

"Well?" he asked.

"I did as you said. I packed the wood heater with gunpowder and...it exploded."

Benoit leaned back in his chair; the satisfied smirk on his face disappeared when he noticed the body language of his guest.

"But?"

"He was badly injured," came the nervous reply. "But he still lives."

"Then that is something we will have to remedy," Benoit told him, his tobacco stained teeth forming a grotesque snarl.

"Please, Uncle, don't ask this of me. Aramis is my friend and I have already robbed him of his sight."

Grabbing the lapels of the young man's coat, Benoit pulled him across the table until their noses touched.

"I took you in when your parent's died. I gave you a home and put food in your belly. Have you forgotten what this man did to Amelie? She had her whole life in front of her and now she's gone! Where does your allegiance lay, nephew, with your Musketeer friend or with your family?"

"My family," the younger man whispered fearfully. "My allegiance is with my family."

Releasing his grasp he pushed the younger man back into his chair and took a long draught from his tankard.

"That's better," he said. "Now we think of a way to finish the job once and for all."

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0-0oo00oo0-0oo00oo0-0oo00oo0-0oo00oo0**

 

**More to come...**

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another quite angsty chapter, folks but I didn't want to gloss over or make light of what would be a terrifying situation. Please indulge me a little further. Our guys will rally – I promise. GMcK

Athos crossed to the large window of the infirmary, allowing the familiarity of the garrison to wash over him. The sun was not yet up but the sky was lightening, a pink and orange glow beginning to show on the horizon.

Constance's arrival the night before had been a Godsend, allowing the Musketeers to catch up on some badly needed rest. As she was required to attend the Queen today, she and d'Artagnan she had left earlier for the palace.

As per his usual morning routine, Athos began rolling his shoulders and performing a series of thrusts and parries to ease the tension from sleep-stiffened muscles. The soft colours of sunrise had given way to the harsher light of day by the time Aramis stirred from his drug-induced sleep.

"Is it morning?" he mumbled despite the vast amount of natural light now flooding the room.

Athos felt his chest tighten painfully. It wasn't that he was in denial about Aramis' loss of vision but every time his friend opened his eyes, he hoped like hell that the marksman's sight had returned.

Aramis was a man of passion and, over the years, Athos had seen a lot of emotion from him – excitement, humour, empathy, determination, anger, even hatred – but the rare, fleeting glimpses of fear and desolation tore at Athos' own composure. He knew the younger man was not impervious to feelings of distress, misery and despair but, with the exception of Savoy, Athos had rarely seen them rise so close to the surface.

Helping the marksman to his feet, Porthos guided the injured man with a gentle hand on his back. He assisted Aramis as he took care of his morning ablutions and tried to ignore the humiliation and self-loathing that stained the younger man's cheeks.

D'Artagnan returned with breakfast - a selection of bread and cheeses - and Aramis was grateful for a meal he could manage without assistance. But reaching for a cup of warm tea, his uncoordinated movement had knocked the receptacle from the table and sent it bouncing end over end to the floor, spilling the contents and prompting a stream of angry curses from the frustrated man.

The heat in his words matched the anguish in his eyes and he suddenly understood that even the most basic activity now presented a major challenge - Aramis had not only lost his sight but also his independence. The realisation tore at his composure and crashed over his friends like a tsunami.

"Is this how I'm to spend my days?" he asked, his voice devoid of expression. "Spoon fed and confined to a rocking chair before my time or sitting on a street corner with a tin cup. Tell me, my friends, what use is a Musketeer without sight?"

A heavy silence fell between them as the heartsick men searched for answers they didn't have.

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0**

Morning muster completed, Treville entered the infirmary to find Porthos, d'Artagnan and Athos sitting together silently. At the far end of the room the jittery Doctor Chevallier had returned to examine Aramis who sat quietly, looking pale and drawn.

"How is he?" Treville asked.

"His moods vary greatly," Athos replied flatly. "Shock, despair, frustration-"

The swordsman's response was truncated by Aramis' resentful growl as he blindly swept Chevallier's medical bag from the table and spilled the contents across the floor.

"And now belligerence," Athos added quickly.

"Treville nodded; his gruffness in direct proportion to his concern.

"Cap'n, you got any idea who tried to kill Aramis?" Porthos asked, fierce intent clearly obvious in his eyes.

"With the exception of two men currently returning from Orleans, I have questioned every Musketeer assigned to the garrison during the four days you were away," Treville told them. "I remain unconvinced that the attack on Aramis was by one of our own."

"Might we inquire the names of these two men?" Athos asked.

"Picard and Mallet," Treville answered. "They are expected back later today."

Athos and Porthos exchanged a worried glance that didn't go unnoticed by their companions.

"Is there something I should know?" the captain asked.

"Aramis was seeing Picard's sister several weeks ago," Athos replied.

"I don't see the problem," d'Artagnan shrugged innocently. "Aramis is a good man."

"Aramis is a  _great_  man," Porthos replied. "But would you want 'im datin'  _your_  sister?"

"Ah…point taken," d'Artagnan nodded.

"By all accounts, the...liaison did not end well," Athos continued. "Aramis terminated the relationship but Picard's sister continued to pursue him."

"Wait… _she_ pursued  _him_ ," d'Artagnan repeated seeking clarification.

"This  _is_ Aramis we're talkin' about, lad," Porthos quipped.

"Of course," d'Artagnan replied with another nod of his head. "Point taken…again."

"Are you saying there was animosity between Aramis and Picard?" Treville wanted to know.

"Not so much animosity as…a few cross words. As far as I am aware, they settled their differences over a few bottles of wine."

"If you ask me, dating someone's sister isn't grounds for attempted murder," the young Gascon said. As Porthos opened his mouth to reply, d'Artagnan raised his hands in surrender. "I know, I know, this is Aramis we're talking about."

"Now you're catchin' on," Porthos said with a hearty chuckle and a slap on the younger man's back.

"Captain, perhaps you'll allow Porthos and I to ride out to meet Picard and Mallet?" Athos suggested.

Porthos cracked his knuckles menacingly.

"I gotta few questions of me own I'd like to ask," he said.

"Absolutely not," Treville said sternly, jerking his chin in Aramis' direction. "I already have one man in trouble, I don't need you going off half-cocked with no proof. I'll question them myself, as soon as they return."

"Why don't we just ask Aramis?" d'Artagnan asked.

The captain shook his head.

"For the moment, I'd rather keep this between us," Treville said.

"'sides, if Aramis knew we suspected another Musketeer, a brother, it'd devastate 'im."

Their attention was drawn by Chevallier as the harried physician made his way across the room to stand at their side.

"Captain, I regret to inform you that, effective immediately, you will need to find a new physician to treat Monsieur Aramis. He has made it quite clear that he no longer needs or desires my services."

"Doctor, if this is about your medical bag, I'm quite sure that was an accident," Treville said, knowing very well that it was not.

"Monsieur Aramis simply refuses to heed my advice," the physician blustered.

"Doctor Chevallier, please," Treville countered. "Aramis is not himself. I'm sure it was not his intention to offend you."

"I am not so sure," the doctor said. "He just suggested that I place my head where it is physically impossible for me to do so!"

Porthos guffawed loudly then quickly disguised it as a cough when he felt the heat of Treville's piercing glare.

Treville rubbed his hand over his jaw in frustration.

"Very well," he agreed, "leave if you must. But before you go, please tell us...has there been any signs of improvement?"

The physician gave an overly dramatic sigh and turned to face them.

"Aramis' hands are healing nicely. There is no sign of infection and I am very confident that he will regain full use of them. Keep changing the bandages and applying the salve twice a day," he told them.

"And his sight?" d'Artagnan asked anxiously.

"I believe whatever is causing Aramis' crippling headaches may also be causing his blindness," Chevallier said. "The tincture I made for him will help ease his pain but he refuses to take it. He really is the most obstinate, infuriating, young man!"

"Perhaps you could recommend another physician?" Athos asked.

Chevallier grew silent and stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"The College de Sorbonne is home to France's most brilliant scientific and medical minds," he said. "Perhaps one of their scholars can assist you where I cannot."

"I will see to it immediately," Athos nodded gratefully.

"I'm afraid that will have to wait," Treville said. "The King has decided to hold a banquet tonight and security arrangements need to be made. Take d'Artagnan with you; Porthos will remain here with Aramis."

Athos glanced quickly toward the young marksman and Treville's eyes softened. "You have ten minutes. I'll have your horses readied for departure. You can call at Sorbonne when you return."

The Musketeers nodded in acknowledgement as the captain guided Chevallier toward the door. The physician turned; his face etched in genuine regret.

"Try to persuade him to take the tonic," he said. "No good can come from his needless suffering."

Then, with a despondent shake of his balding head, the physician left the infirmary.

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0**

As the Musketeers crossed the room to their friend, they could see the sweat beading at his brow and the lines of pain etched into his eyes.

The injured man startled slightly as Porthos placed a cup in his trembling hand and held it steady with his own.

"Drink the tonic," he said gently. "You don't 'ave to be in pain."

"It addles my mind," Aramis whispered. "I can't think...I can't...I can't function."

The young man huffed a laugh that sounded more like a hybrid sob and Porthos fleetingly wondered how his friend's vibrant personality could have vanished so quickly.

"Aramis,  _please_  drink the tonic," Porthos repeated.

"No!" Aramis yelled, hurling the cup against the wall and relishing in the sound of its destruction.

Stepping forward, Athos took a deep breath and regained his composure with its expulsion.

"Not a bad attempt," he quipped, "but for future reference, if you alter your trajectory six feet to the left, the shattering window would offer a much more dramatic effect."

Springing to his feet and swaying precariously, Aramis' turned his sightless eyes on the older man.

" _You think this is funny?"_  he yelled furiously.

"You know better than to ask," Athos deflected the accusation with his customary calmness. "We are simply trying to help you."

" _I never asked for your help!"_  Aramis bellowed.

The tenuous grip Athos had on his patience slipped and, in one stride, he stepped into the younger man's personal space, took two fists full of his shirt and shook him roughly.

" _No, you did not!"_  he yelled angrily into Aramis' startled face.  _"And yet here we are, at your side as always. All for one and one for all. Do you truly believe that we are not suffering with you? That, were it possible, any one of us would not gladly trade places with you?"_

Swallowing his fury he released his grip on the younger man's shirt and forced himself to take a few calming breaths. When he spoke again his voice was thick with barely restrained emotion.

"You didn't ask for our help, brother," Athos whispered hoarsely, "but surely you know by now…you never have to ask."

The words were almost Aramis' undoing. His knees buckled and only Porthos' fast reaction prevented the marksman crumpling to the floor. Safely seated back on the chair, Aramis' unseeing eyes pleaded with his friends to help him find the strength he needed.

Kneeling in front of the injured man, d'Artagnan's hand strayed to the marksman's neck and he gently leaned forward until their foreheads touched.

"Upon our return from the palace, Athos and I will call at the College de Sorbonne," he said. "You have our word that we will not rest until we have an answer to this affliction."

Porthos placed his large hand on Aramis' shoulder.

"But you gotta do your part," he said. "You gotta 'ave faith and stay strong...even if that means takin' the tonic. Can you do that?"

Aramis nodded dully, swallowing the emotion that threatened to choke him.

Taking another cup, the swordsman poured another measure of tonic, this time adding an equal measure of water. Athos placed the cup in Aramis' hand.

"It's half strength," he told him. "If you require more for the pain, Porthos will get it for you."

Aramis closed his eyes and without another word being spoken between them, fear and pain were telegraphed and comfort and strength returned. Taking a fortifying breath, he drank the tonic before he raised the cup above his shoulder and postured to throw it.

"Six feet to the left, you say?" he quipped, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Don't even think about it!" Porthos growled without rancour and took the cup. "Treville will 'ave our hides."

With the tension lifted, the quiet conversations continued around him. Aramis felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude that these men had come into his life sharing their friendship, their humour and their strong sense of loyalty.

Standing nearby, Porthos saw the moment the tonic hit the marksman's bloodstream. His friend's eyelids slid to half-mast and his body listed precariously to the side.

"I gotcha," he said, heaving the younger man to his feet and half-carrying him to the nearby bed. Pulling the blanket up to Aramis' chest, he rested his hand on his shoulder. "Just rest. I'll be 'ere when you wake up."

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0**

A young man lurked in the shadows of the garrison livery; his body rocking back and forth in a state of high agitation. He bore a feeling of desolation and misery so deep he could scarcely breathe from the weight of it. For the second time in three days, he was faced with a choice – betray his family or betray the Musketeers.

Misguided family honour and the overwhelming fear of an abusive uncle had motivated the young man's decision but guilt and shame now ate away at his soul like a necrosis. His beleaguered conscience silently screamed its need for forgiveness but he knew there would be no mercy for what he was about to do.

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0**

King Louis was in an ebullient mood. This morning, his First Minister, Rochefort, had informed him of a substantial boost of funds to the treasury, thanks to the impending resumption and resale of many farms whose owners had fallen behind with their taxes. So, to celebrate their good fortune, the King had decided to hold a banquet for a select number of nobles.

In complete contrast to the King, Athos could feel the dark eyes of the young Gascon burning a hole in his back. In fact, he was quite sure that, if he were to turn and look at the younger man, he would be able to see the steam billowing from d'Artagnan's ears and a hint of shame colouring his cheeks.

D'Artagnan bristled silently, knowing that he and his companions had served the eviction notices themselves just a few days ago. The young man closed his eyes and calmed his breathing. He was a Musketeer, honour-bound and proud to protect his King and serve his country - but he was also his father's son and the injustice of the situation was something he abhorred.

With the security details finalised, the King turned his attention to the menu and guest list while Athos bowed graciously and excused himself. He was eager to rejoin d'Artagnan and ride to the College de Sorbonne to speak with the scholars about Aramis' condition. He turned for the exit and found his path blocked by the Queen.

"Your Majesty," he said, with a respectful nod.

"How is he?" Anne asked, her concern clouding her blues eyes.

Athos lowered his voice and checked to see there was no one within earshot.

"His sight has not yet returned but his hands are healing well," he said. "The physician is certain he will regain the full use of them."

"Athos, please, how  _is_  he?"

The Musketeer sighed, reluctant to involve the Queen but unable to ignore her anguished request.

"It has been three days and he grows more deeply despondent," Athos told her, watching as she struggled to maintain her impervious façade. "He believes his sight will never return and the physician has neither the experience nor the skill to tell us otherwise."

"You must tell me what I can do to ease his suffering," she said, quickly blinking away her tears as the King appeared unexpectedly.

"Am I intruding?" he asked suspiciously.

"Of course not, Sire," Anne said, plastering a smile on her face. "I was merely inquiring after the Musketeer, Aramis. You will recall that he was grievously injured recently."

"Ah yes," Louis said. "I believe I heard something about that. Pity, he was a good man."

"With respect, Your Majesty, he still is a good man," Athos bristled.

"Yes…well, you know what I mean," Louis said, waving his hand dismissively. "Please tell me Treville is close to bringing the perpetrator to justice. An attack on one of my Musketeers must not go unpunished. It would reflect very badly on me."

Before Athos could say anything he would regret, the Queen stepped forward.

"I wonder, Sire, if Aramis' injury presents an opportunity to exhibit your overwhelming magnanimity?"

Athos' posture stiffened at the prospect of anyone using his friend's injury to their own advantage but the King's curiosity piqued.

"Go on," he instructed.

"Were you to order your own personal physician to examine Aramis, your subjects would see the gesture as an example of great generosity toward a man who has served you so loyally," she said, carefully choosing her words.

"Yes…yes, I think you're right, my dear. After all, the Royal physician is the most learned practitioner in all of France. I will order him to go to the garrison to see what can be done for Aramis."

Athos bowed low.

"Your Majesty's compassion knows no bounds," he said, his eyes flicking to Anne's who acknowledged with a small smile.

The King held his hand out toward his Queen.

"Come, my dear, we have a banquet to plan."

As Athos watched them leave the throne room, d'Artagnan joined him.

"Ready to go to Sorbonne?" he asked.

"No need," Athos said with a grin. "Sorbonne is coming to us."

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0**

Porthos scrubbed at his tired eyes and reshuffled the deck of cards in front of him. He stole a glance at Aramis and sighed in relief at the sight of the younger man in a deep healing sleep; his head canted to the side and lips slightly parted.

After d'Artagnan and Athos had left for the palace, Aramis had slept fitfully for an hour before the thudding inside his head increased and the pain became unbearable. To Porthos' great relief, this time his offer of assistance was accepted and the marksman drank the tonic without complaint.

A knock at the door had the large Musketeer on his feet in an instant. Opening the door a crack, he recognised the lanky form of Antoine, the stable boy, and he relaxed his stance. Eyes wide in trepidation, Antoine stood with his arms laden with freshly baked bread and a pot of warm broth.

"Monsieur Porthos," he said. "Serge thought you and Aramis might be hungry."

The succulent aroma aroused Porthos' appetite and his stomach growled in anticipation.

"You better come in then," he replied opening the door and allowing the boy to enter.

Antoine stood stock still when he saw the marksman lying insensate on the nearby bed.

"It's alright," Porthos said. "You won't wake 'im."

Placing the food on the nearby table, the young man turned to leave when the compound outside was rocked by an explosion. Antoine moved quickly to the window while Porthos' eyes immediately flicked to Aramis who hadn't stirred. Antoine watched open-mouthed as smoke billowed from the kitchen.

"Serge is in there!" Antoine exclaimed. "He's in the kitchen!"

As the young man rushed for the door, his progress was halted by Porthos' arm around his waist.

"You stay with Aramis," he said, hesitating slightly as he looked back at his friend's still form. "Lock this door behind me and don't let anyone in. You got that?"

Antoine nodded vigorously and Porthos left the room at a run. Locking the door, the young man walked slowly to the bed. Tears spilled from his eyes and his face contorted with remorse.

"Forgive me, my friend," he said as he withdrew his main gauche from its sheath.

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0-0oo00oo0**

**More to come...**


	4. Chapter 4

Athos and d'Artagnan saw the black smoke billowing from the garrison as they made their way back from the palace. Urging their mounts into a gallop the two arrived in the compound in time to see Porthos, Treville and several other Musketeers emerging from the refectory, coughing harshly as they tried to rid their lungs of the acrid smoke.

Dismounting quickly, they hurried to the Porthos' side.

"It's alright," the larger man said, allaying their fears. "The fire's out – no one was 'urt."

"What happened?" Athos asked, watching in concern as Porthos swiped away tears from his smoke-irritated eyes.

"There was another explosion," he coughed. "In the refectory, this time. There's quite a bit of damage."

"And Aramis?" d'Artagnan asked worriedly.

"He's safe – still sleepin' when I left 'im."

Treville joined them, clapping a hand on Porthos' shoulder to steady himself as he coughed more smoke from his lungs.

"Captain, have Picard and Mallet returned?" d'Artagnan asked.

"They aren't due back for another hour," Treville replied. "This latest attack would appear to clear them of any involvement."

Athos looked around the compound thoughtfully.

"If not a Musketeer, then the perpetrator would have to be someone whose presence here would not be questioned," he remarked.

Porthos' paled notably – his red-rimmed eyes widened in alarm.

"Oh God, no!" he exclaimed before setting off for the infirmary at a run.

Without hesitation, Athos, d'Artagnan and the captain followed, their concern growing when the larger man found the infirmary door locked. He rammed his shoulder against it, ignoring the pain that ran down his arm.

"Aramis!"

The door stood firm and the large Musketeer roared in frustration as he tried again. This time a fleeting sense of satisfaction surged through him as the door succumbed; the jamb splintering as it gave way with an almighty crash.

Charging into the room with their pistols drawn, the men's eyes reflected their horror at the sight of Aramis, pale-faced and kneeling on the floor. The marksman's bandaged hands and shirt were covered in blood and a gauche hung limply from his right hand. In the chair beside the bed, Antoine remained unmoved; his head bowed forward until his chin rested on his chest.

"He needs a physician," Aramis told them, his voice shaky and weak. "I…I can't stop the bleeding."

Stepping closer to the boy, Treville searched for signs of life. Antoine's skin was still warm to the touch and his freshly shed tears still glistened on his cheeks but it was obvious the boy had breathed his last breath.

"He needs help," Aramis said breathlessly, looking like he was about to collapse.

Athos moved calmly to Aramis' side, placing his hand on the younger man's back and removing the gauche from lax fingers.

"I'm afraid he is beyond help," he said with his usual calm.

Aramis fell back onto his haunches and sighed deeply.

"He was barely eighteen," he rasped.

Looking at the marksman's bloodied hands, Athos grasped his elbow.

"Are you injured?" he asked.

Trembling and disoriented, Aramis blinked his sightless eyes languidly but remained silent. Athos gently shook him to prompt a response.

"Aramis, are you injured?" he repeated with more urgency.

Slowly raising his blood-sodden, bandaged hands, Aramis spoke in a voice devoid of inflection.

"It's…it's not mine," he said through chattering teeth. "The blood is Antoine's."

"You'll forgive me, my brother, if I check for myself," Athos replied, checking the younger man's arms and torso before satisfying himself that his friend was not injured.

With a flick of his wrist, Porthos stripped a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around the marksman's shoulders.

"Let's get you back to bed, yeah?" he asked.

Taking most of Aramis' weight, Porthos guided his friend back to sit on the bed.

"Help me with the boy," Athos said to d'Artagnan and together they lifted Antoine's body to the bed nearest the door.

"I'll get some warm water for Aramis," d'Artagnan volunteered before hurrying away.

"Hey," Porthos said, turning Aramis' face toward him. "You with us?"

The younger man nodded dully.

"Aramis, I need to know what happened here," Treville said.

"Cap'n," Porthos said nodding toward his injured friend. "Per'aps this could wait?"

"I wish it could," Treville said. "But a young man has died under my command and I need to know how."

"I understand," Aramis whispered. There was a rare timbre to his voice that he barely recognised as his own but he cleared his throat and recovered his countenance.

"I was sleeping. When I awoke, Antoine was speaking…pleading with me to forgive him. I asked him what had happened but he became frantic. He told me I would understand in time and again he begged my forgiveness," the marksman struggled with his composure before continuing. "Before I could reply, he cried out in pain. I called to him but he didn't answer. He began to wheeze and his breathing became shallow. When I got to him I found his gauche in his chest. I tried to stem the bleeding but I couldn't see and…there was just too much blood."

"Why would Antoine take 'is own life?" Porthos asked.

Aramis shook his head and rubbed at his temples to ward off the painful headache. The crimson smudges from his hands looked garish against his pale skin.

"Perhaps this will provide some of the answers we seek," Athos said, holding a piece of folded parchment.

"What is it?" Aramis asked.

"I found it in Antoine's coat pocket. It appears to be a confession, written in his hand."

"What does it say?" Treville wanted to know.

Athos began reading silently. His eyes flicking to the marksman as he tried to anticipate Aramis' reaction.

"It says that Antoine takes full responsibility for the explosion that resulted in Aramis' blindness. He acted alone and never intended to inflict such a serious injury. He was upset that he was overlooked for the Musketeer cadetship. He thought if he proved his courage by rescuing Aramis from his burning quarters, he would be assured of a position. He inadvertently used too much gunpowder and could not live with the burden of guilt."

Hearing the words forced the air from Aramis' lungs and an involuntary gasp escaped his lips. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and carded bloodied fingers through his hair.

"This isn't happening," he whispered, pressing the heel of one hand against the throbbing in his temple and trying to collect the scattered fragments of his composure.

From across the room, Treville's blue eyes grew dim with recall as he remembered the day Antoine arrived at the garrison. The young man was one among many, desperately hoping to earn a Musketeer cadetship. While the other young hopefuls were brash and filled with bravado, Antoine stood nervously waiting his turn. It wasn't difficult to notice that the boy was different. His hunched shoulders, bowed head and minimal eye contact reflected his lack of self-confidence but there was something more that, initially, Treville couldn't quite put his finger on.

During the hand to hand and the sword and pistol trials, it quickly became obvious that the young man lacked the skill and the temperament required to be a Musketeer. He was a gentle soul and eager to learn but he was slow-witted and, therefore, deemed unsuitable for life as one of the King's elite personal regiment. Treville had no choice but to cut him from the squad and send him on his way.

It was Aramis who noticed how well Antoine handled the horses and Aramis who had repeatedly asked the captain to give the boy another chance. He recommended that Treville take Antoine on as a stable boy with a view to him learning the blacksmith trade. He'd taken a personal interest in the boy and, more than once, had put the fear of God into any cadet who dared make fun him.

D'Artagnan's return drew the captain from his musings. The young Gascon carried a kettle of warm water and a clean shirt slung over his shoulder. While he poured the water into a basin, Athos retrieved some wash cloths and clean bandages and salve for Aramis' hands and brought them back to the bed where the injured man sat disturbingly still. Without the need for words, the three friends began to tend to the compliant marksman. The Musketeers exchanging worried glances, each knowing from experience that a silent and compliant Aramis was generally reason for concern.

Treville continued to watch as Porthos and Athos wrestled Aramis into a clean shirt, the injured man's eyes closed tightly as the pain of his headache continued to escalate. Once again the captain marveled at the bond between these four men. They were similar in so many ways and so totally disparate in others yet, somehow, their friendship worked. Theirs was a closeness born of shared experiences in the best and worst of times - their mutual bond forged by shared conflicts and strengthened by adversity.

They were soldiers – the best of the best. Men of action who rarely spoke openly of their feelings and often kept their emotions tightly contained. More often than not, they communicated on a subtle non-verbal level where feelings were not spoken but were felt just the same. But inside each of them was a protective pyre that burned as hot as a second sun whenever one of their brothers was in trouble or injured.

It was unlike the marksman to openly admit to pain so when Aramis quietly requested more of the tincture, d'Artagnan turned worried eyes to his mentor. Athos nodded and the Gascon poured a measure into a cup and held it to Aramis' lips. Drinking it down, they helped him lay back comfortably in the bed, relieved for the respite as their friend's tortured expression gradually relaxed into a healing sleep.

Leaving Aramis to rest, the Musketeers joined Treville whose eyes reflected his concern for the injured man.

"I don't like it," he said. "Grief and misplaced guilt nearly took Aramis from us once before."

"Savoy?" d'Artagnan whispered to Athos, receiving a short nod in reply.

"He'll bounce back," Porthos replied with certainty.

"How can you be so sure?" the captain asked.

"Cause he's Aramis," the large Musketeer stated plainly. "He's like a cat."

"How many of those nine lives has he used, so far?" d'Artagnan wondered aloud.

"Fifteen," Athos replied drolly.

"He is still coming to terms with the loss of his sight and now this," the captain said, nodding his head to where Antoine's body lay.

"Oh, his sight!" d'Artagnan exclaimed looking back at his sleeping friend. "We didn't tell Aramis about Dr Lemay."

"There'll be time to tell him when he awakens," Athos said. "Right now, he needs rest."

"What's this about Dr Lemay?" Treville asked.

"His Majesty has ordained that Dr Lemay call at the garrison this evening to examine Aramis," Athos told them.

Porthos whistled softy.

"The King's personal physician…if 'e can't 'elp Aramis, no one can."

Treville nodded his acknowledgement before turning for the door and speaking over his shoulder.

"Porthos, I want you and d'Artagnan to arrange a detail to escort Antoine's body to his family. Let me know when you are ready, I will accompany you."

"Yes, Cap'n," the large Musketeer replied, looking back at his best friend lying motionless in the bed.

"He will be fine," Athos assured. "The threat on his life died with Antoine."

Nodding reluctantly, Porthos and d'Artagnan left to arrange a wagon and four more men to escort the stable boy's body home.

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0**

The wagon slowly negotiated the narrow streets with the small Musketeer contingent attracting attention from neighbours and passers-by. They stopped momentarily for Treville to ask directions to the Benoit home before continuing on to the end of the street to a small, rundown tenement house.

Laurent Benoit peered through the shuttered window as the Musketeers stopped in front of his house. His stomach roiled as a multitude of possibilities ran through his alcohol-fuelled mind. He had expected Antoine home several hours ago and when his nephew hadn't arrived he had presumed the boy had lost his nerve or had been caught attempting to kill Aramis.

Benoit had manipulated the boy's fierce family loyalty and used it to guilt him into exacting revenge on Aramis. But Antoine was weak-minded and easily led. Benoit's heart began to pound painfully against his sternum as he wondered whether his nephew had betrayed him.

He contemplated running, packing his few belongings and leaving Paris forever…but where would he go? He had no money, no work prospects and now, thanks to Aramis, he had no family. He reached for his loaded pistol and tucked it into the small of his back – if the Musketeers were here to take him, he was going out fighting.

Treville dismounted and strode purposefully to the door. Removing his hat and taking a deep breath, the captain waited as the door opened and a leanly muscled man with sharp features and the strong odor of alcohol stepped out to meet him.

Porthos and d'Artagnan watched from their horses as the captain broke the news of Antoine's death. Though several yards away and unable to hear the conversation, they watched as Treville handed the older man Antoine's written confession, surprised when the man's face appeared to reflect relief rather than shock or grief.

As protocol dictated, Treville led the older man to the wagon, slowing his pace to accommodate Benoit's heavy limp. Porthos and the other Musketeers removed their hats and bowed their heads respectfully as the man drew back the blanket covering his Antoine's face and then nodded his head to formally identify his nephew.

"Despite the circumstances, we still consider Antoine to be one of us," Treville said. "If you have no objection, we will make arrangements for him to be laid to rest in the cemetery at the garrison."

Sensing an opportunity, Benoit drew back his top lip in a snarl, revealing teeth stained by tobacco and alcohol.

"You must think me a fool, Captain," he said. "My nephew was not capable of taking his own life. It is more likely that this…this Aramis murdered him and you are covering his transgression for the sake of your precious regiment."

Porthos postured to dismount but d'Artagnan grasped the older man's foreman and shook his head.

"Monsieur," the captain replied. "You have seen your nephew's confession with your own eyes. It was Antoine's misguided actions that left Aramis without sight. Aramis played no part in Antoine's death."

"You said my nephew went to Aramis seeking his forgiveness," Benoit said. "Even without sight, surely your Musketeer has the skill to overpower a common stable boy, does he not?"

"I assure you, Monsieur-"

"Your assurances mean nothing to me, Captain," Benoit growled. "I will seek an audience with the King to report this flagrant abuse of authority and will insist that Aramis be tried for murder."

Treville clenched his teeth together so tightly the muscles in his jaw twitched.

"That is your right, Monsieur, however, there still remains the matter of your nephew's resting place."

"Have your men deliver Antoine's body to the city morgue," Benoit replied. "I would rather he be buried in a pauper's grave than have him resting for eternity among the very men who killed him and chose to protect his murderer."

"As you wish," Treville said, hoisting himself back onto his horse and nodding for the wagon to lead off.

As they wound their way back through the narrow street, d'Artagnan exchanged a glance with Porthos.

"Well, that could have gone better," he quipped.

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0**

"I assure you, Serge," Athos repeated with a sigh of exasperation, "when the captain returns he will see to it that you have whatever you need to restore order to the kitchen."

"That's all well and good," Serge continued, refusing to acknowledge Athos' gestures to keep his voice down. "But in three hours I'm gonna 'ave thirty hungry Musketeers looking for their dinner and I got nothin' to cook with! And another thing…"

Athos let his mind wander as Serge continued his rant about the damage to the kitchen. It had been a peaceful afternoon. Aramis slept undisturbed and Athos took advantage of the late afternoon sun streaming through the infirmary window to relax with a bottle of wine as he waited for the arrival of Dr Lemay…and then Serge arrived and his quiet afternoon was shattered. Sometimes being second in command simply wasn't worth the effort.

"Shhhh," he tried again as the old cook's voice rose several more decibels.

Nodding his head as if he was listening attentively to every word, Athos took the older man by the elbow and led him back to the kitchen area where the risk of his waking Aramis was much less. He was still there an hour later, covered in soot and helping Serge salvage whatever kitchenware they could when the detail returned looking tired and miserable. Treville looked livid as he dismounted and took the stairs to his office two at a time. He ran out of stairs before he ran out of temper and slammed his office door closed, the sound reverberating around the compound.

"I assume it did not go well," Athos said dryly.

"You could say that," d'Artagnan said as they walked toward the infirmary to check on their injured friend. "Antoine's uncle has accused Aramis of murder and the captain of covering it up. He's going to seek an audience with the King to urge him to bring charges."

"That's ridiculous," the swordsman said. "There is no just cause and we have a signed confession. The King would never believe such a fanciful claim."

"Maybe not, but Rochefort would," Porthos replied. "And I wouldn't put it passed 'im to make trouble."

The three Musketeers opened the door to the infirmary and stood stock still as they looked around the empty infirmary. It was d'Artagnan who broke the silence.

"Speaking of trouble…where is Aramis?"

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0-0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0-0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're still enjoying the story. As this is my first multi-chapter story in the Musketeer fandom, I'd love to hear what you think.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After all that drama and angst, I thought we could all use a small respite - I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Though it was quite obvious the infirmary was empty, Porthos called his friend's name.

"Aramis?"

Athos walked to the now empty bed, noting the blankets were pulled back but the bedside table and chair appeared undisturbed.

"No signs of a struggle," he said. "It appears he left of his own volition."

"Of all the stupid-" the large Musketeer spluttered. "Wait til I get my 'ands on 'im, I'll-"

Porthos bit back the rest of the sentence before he said something he'd later regret but although the words were angry, his dark eyes reflected only concern.

"He can't have gone far," d'Artagnan added, pointing to the marksman's boots still placed at the end of the bed.

"Aramis knows every inch of this garrison but in his current condition the risk of further injury is high," Athos stated. "We need to find him before he breaks his neck."

"And denies me of the pleasure of breakin' it for 'im," Porthos growled.

Though he understood his friend's anger, Athos threw him a disapproving look before continuing.

"We'll split up - Porthos, speak with the guards at the gate, if they haven't seen him check the stables. D'Artagnan check Aramis' quarters and the armory; I'll speak with Treville."

Porthos stood as if rooted to the floor; concern and fear evident on his face. The swordsman placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"We'll find him," he said. "Go."

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0**

Athos was halfway to Treville's office before he remembered that the captain had left earlier for the palace. With the reputation of the regiment and one of his best men at stake, Treville was determined to counter any accusations Benoit may have already made against their marksman.

Returning to the infirmary, Athos looked around the room; his gaze falling upon the bottle of wine he'd been enjoying earlier. Frowning, he walked closer and examined the bottle, fully expecting to find it half full. Tipping it upside down, he watched as a few tiny droplets fell onto the table. Blue eyes flicked back to the empty bed and Athos sighed deeply.

"How is it, my brother, that even without sight you manage to locate my best wine?" he asked, his lips twitching as a small smile ghosted across them.

Replacing the bottle, a thought suddenly occurred and Athos hurried to the door of the large basement located under the infirmary. The basement was currently used as a depository for blankets, medical supplies, dry goods and anything else regularly required in the day to day running of the garrison. It was no coincidence that the cool, dark room also held a considerable reserve of wine.

A rickety wooden staircase led to the storeroom below. Standing on the top landing, Athos cursed under his breath as he fumbled the flint while trying to light the lantern. As the flame caught and the soft glow fought the darkness for supremacy, the swordsman suppressed the sinking feeling in his stomach. His eyes adjusted to the dim light and the sight of his friend lying unmoving at the bottom of the stairs stole the air from his lungs. For a chilling moment he was unable to do anything but stare in horror until his training kicked in and he forced his trembling legs to carry him down the stairs to Aramis' prone body.

Kneeling at the marksman's side he reached shaking fingers under Aramis' jaw to check for a pulse. Feeling the slow and steady beat beneath his fingertips, Athos sat back on his haunches and thanked a God, in whom he didn't believe, that his friend was alive and appeared to be in one piece. Only then did he notice the overpowering stench of alcohol and the half-empty bottle of wine still held between Aramis' lax fingers.

D'Artagnan's muted voice sounded from above.

"Athos?"

"Down here," he called in reply.

Barely a moment passed before Porthos and d'Artagnan thundered down the stairs behind him.

"God, no," the young Gascon uttered.

"How is 'e?" Porthos asked, barely suppressing his panic.

"Reckless, foolhardy, obstinate...but with extremely good taste in wine," Athos deadpanned, holding up the half empty bottle for examination.

"He's drunk?" Porthos yelled, his concern swiftly transforming to anger.

"So it would appear," Athos replied with his usual calm. "We need to check him for injuries. Help me turn him...carefully."

When Porthos stood firm, d'Artagnan quickly moved into position and, as gently as they could, they rolled the marksman onto his back and sighed with relief when no further injuries were apparent.

D'Artagnan removed his doublet, fashioning it into a makeshift pillow and eased it gently under the marksman's head while Athos tapped his fingers against Aramis' cheek.

"Aramis…open your eyes," he coaxed.

The younger man's brow furrowed deeply and his hands flew up to bat away the annoyance. He moaned and muttered incoherently as the swordsman raked his fingers through his friend's unruly mop of curls, checking for unseen injuries.

"Aramis, listen to me" he said sternly. "Did you fall or hit your head?"

In the midst of another stream of incoherent ramblings and curses, they distinctly heard the words 'didn't fall.' The three friends sat back in relief.

"Thank God," d'Artagnan said looking back up the stairs. "If he'd have fallen from there he could have been killed."

Once more, Porthos' concern gave way to anger and he grabbed the semi-conscious man by the front of his shirt and pulled him into a sitting position, their noses almost touching.

"You damn fool!" he yelled, shaking him roughly. "What the hell were you thinkin'?"

D'Artagnan and Athos prised Porthos' large hands from their ailing friend.

"I understand your frustration, brother, but this must wait," Athos said calmly.

"Wait?" Porthos growled. "He can't see! Do you have any idea what could 'ave 'appened?"

Placing both hands on Porthos' shoulders, Athos witnessed a myriad of emotion washing over the larger man's face.

"But it didn't," he reasoned. "Apart from what I imagine will be a sizable and well-deserved hangover, Aramis should be no worse off for his foolishness."

Porthos broke free of the swordsman's hold and stalked to the other side of the room, needing a few moments to rid his mind of acts of violence against his intoxicated friend. He pressed the heels of his callused hands into tired eyes and took several deep cleansing breaths.

"Are you sure he's alright?" d'Artagnan asked worriedly. "I've seen Aramis drunk before but never like this."

Athos squatted beside the inebriated man. Grasping him gently by the chin, he turned Aramis' head until he was facing him. Bleary sightless eyes blinked lazily in his direction.

"I suspect we are witnessing the combination of the wine and the tincture," Athos replied. "We'll know more when Dr Lemay arrives."

He flicked his eyes across to the large Musketeer who was still standing with his back to his friends.

"We could use your assistance," he told him.

"Get 'im upstairs," Porthos said waving his hand dismissively and climbing the stairs. "I'll ride out to meet the doc."

D'Artagnan turned worried eyes to his mentor.

"He's leaving? Aramis is his best friend."

"Which is precisely why seeing him like this is so difficult," Athos said. "Give him time, he'll be back."

"Athos!" Porthos called from the top of the stairs. "Treville's back. He wants to see you."

Sighing, Athos climbed to his feet and turned back to the Gascon.

"Try to wake him, I'll be back directly, he said, calling back over his shoulder. "And don't let him out of your sight."

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0**

"You wanted to see me, Captain," Athos said as he entered Treville's office.

"Aramis?" Treville asked succinctly.

"d'Artagnan is with him," Athos replied just as concisely.

"Get him back to the infirmary and keep him there," the captain said. "Tie him to the bed if you have to."

"I don't believe that will be necessary," Athos assured him. "What of Benoit's accusations?"

"I've spoken to the clerk of the court. Benoit has not yet registered his complaint against Aramis or attempted to see the King."

"And Rochefort?"

"As he hasn't sent the Red Guard to arrest Aramis, we can safely assume he doesn't yet know," Treville said.

"What's next?"

"I will see the King tomorrow and advise him of Benoit's claims myself."

"Is that wise?"

"Perhaps not but should Rochefort hear about this, he will manipulate the truth and attempt to discredit Aramis and the entire regiment. With Antoine's confession and Aramis' impeccable service record, I hope the King will see reason and dismiss any false claims."

"How can we help?" Athos asked.

"I'll take care of Rochefort. You take care of Aramis."

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0**

Porthos rolled his shoulders to loosen the tension that had taken up residence there. As the streets grew more crowded he pulled back gently on the reins and eased his horse from a trot to a walk.

He really didn't know at whom he was angrier – Athos for his calm and reason, d'Artagnan for his unabashed care and concern, Aramis for his damn recklessness or himself for his frustrating inability to keep his best friend safe when he needed him most. He shook his head, willing away the memory of seeing his friend lying insensate at the bottom of the stairs, certain the vision would launch many future nightmares.

He was nearing the crossroads to the College de Sorbonne when he recognised Dr Lemay's carriage approaching. The doctor was accompanied by another man, perhaps a little older than d'Artagnan, with light hair and piercing blue eyes.

"Monsieur Porthos," Lemay greeted with a smile. "We were just on our way to the garrison."

"We?" Porthos asked, eyeing the other man warily.

"Allow me to introduce my associate, Thierry Leon," Lemay said waving a hand toward the younger man. "Thierry has kindly agreed to consult with me regarding Aramis' care."

"Doctor," Porthos greeted with a tip of his hat.

"Oh, I'm not a doctor," Thierry said with an easy smile.

"Thierry has worked with the blind for nearly ten years," Lemay said. "I thought his experience may be of great benefit to Aramis."

"This is just temporary," Porthos replied curtly. "Aramis will see again."

The two men in the carriage exchanged a quick glance and a heavy silence grew between them. With a quiet cough to clear his throat, Lemay found his voice.

"I sincerely hope you are correct, Porthos," he said. "But let's not keep him waiting any longer."

Porthos turned his horse and drew alongside the carriage as they continued toward the garrison.

"Tell me, Porthos," Lemay said. "Has there been any change in Aramis' condition?

"Not yet," he replied. "It's only been a few days."

"Is he still experiencing headaches?"

The Musketeer nodded.

"A lot of 'em," he said. "Bad ones."

"I may have something that can reduce the frequency of those headaches," the doctor said thoughtfully.

"You got something that cures stupidity, Doc?" Porthos snapped. "Because Aramis could use a whole lotta that right now."

"Has something happened?" Lemay asked worriedly.

Porthos sighed heavily and waived his hand dismissively.

"You'll find out soon enough," he said wearily.

As they travelled the next few moments in silence, Porthos could feel the young man's blue eyes upon him.

"How are  _you_  coping, Monsieur?" he asked.

"I'm not the one who can't see," the Musketeer snapped.

"That's true," the young man continued. "But it is obvious you care for your friend."

Porthos shrugged his broad shoulders.

"It's not easy watching 'im like that," Porthos said. "Drinkin' himself into oblivion and puttin' himself in 'arm's way."

"Aramis didn't drink before?"

"Course he did," Porthos replied. "But not like that."

"And he's never placed himself in harm's way?"

Porthos looked exasperated before admitting reluctantly.

"Yeah, he did…more times than I like to remember. But that was before, it's different now."

" _Some_  things are different now, Monsieur, but your friend hasn't changed. He is still the same man he always was…and he's scared."

"You don't know Aramis," Porthos defended indignantly. "He's never been scared of anything in 'is life."

"He's never faced the prospect of life without sight before," Thierry said. "It's a terrifying prospect – even for a King's Musketeer. I have worked with many sightless people, Monsieur Porthos. Some were born without sight, some were blinded in an accident, while others gradually lost their sight for reasons no one knows. In my experience, the understanding and support of family and friends can be the difference between adapting to a life of blindness or spiralling into a life of misery and despair."

The men fell silent once more and Porthos mulled the younger man's words over in his mind. Aramis was his best friend, his brother – whatever frustration and fear he was feeling right now, he knew it was far worse for Aramis. He'd be damned if he'd stand by and watch his friend plunge headlong into a life of despair and misery. Porthos was going to pull Aramis back into life, even if he had to drag him kicking and screaming all the way

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0**

D'Artagnan drew in some deep breaths. It had taken some doing but he'd managed to get Aramis into a semi-sitting, semi-slouching position against the wall.

"Okay Aramis, let's try this again, alright?" d'Artagnan said with exaggerated patience. "I'm going to help you to your feet and  _this time_  you're going to have to lock your knees or you'll fall on your arse again, okay? Then, you're going to put your arm around my shoulders and we'll carefully walk up the stairs. Got it?"

"Umm…not exactly," Aramis slurred, his brow furrowed in confusion. "I think...I think I missed…missed something."

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes and prayed for patience.

"That's okay," he said. "I'll repeat it for you again. What part did you miss?"

"The part after…okay Aramis," the marksman said, dissolving into fits of laughter. "Come on, d'Artagnan, where's your hence of sumour?"

"My  _hence of sumour_  disappeared the first five times I tried to get you on your feet," the younger man replied crossly. "You're not exactly a lightweight you know. Now, come on…on three…"

He managed to finally get Aramis vertical, only to have him sway dangerously and almost pitch both of them to the floor.

"Hey!" d'Artagnan scolded. "Stop swaying!"

"That's me?" the older man asked in surprise. "I thought…I thought that was you!"

D'Artagnan gagged and turned his head away from his friend.

"S'matter?" Aramis asked.

"Stop breathing on me!" the younger man protested. "Your breath could knock a buzzard off a shite wagon!"

Aramis' face instantly took on a wounded expression.

"That…that was not polite."

D'Artagnan shrugged a shoulder unrepentantly.

"I need you to pay attention – this is very important. We're gonna walk to the stairs and slowly climb each step one at a time."

Aramis shook his head.

"I…I don't think I can," he said. "Those stairs are really steep and…and I can't see. I...I could fall?"

"You won't fall, I've got you," d'Artagnan encouraged. "I need you to trust me, Aramis, can you do that?"

Aramis pursed his lips before nodding vigorously.

"I can do that. You know why I can do that d'Artagnan?" he asked without waiting for a reply. "Cos when it comes to people I trust, you're at the top of my list."

The young Gascon stood stock-still, surprised and touched by his friend's admission.

"I…you flatter me, my friend," he said sincerely. "I'm honoured."

"Don't be...it is a very short list," Aramis said, bursting into side splitting laughter again as D'Artagnan struggled to hold his friend upright.

"Dammit, Aramis, this could be very dangerous. If we're ever gonna get out of the basement  _you have to listen to me!"_

More howls of laughter burst forth from Aramis as Athos arrived at the top of the stairs. A small grin softened the former comte's features as he enjoyed the sound of his friend's laughter – a sound he hadn't heard for far too long. He watched his two friends take three precarious steps toward the staircase before Aramis lost all colour from an already pale face.

"I…I don't feel well," he groaned.

D'Artagnan eyed him warily. "Should I be worried?"

"That depends," Aramis mumbled. "Are you wearing your new boots?"

"Of course."

"Be worried," Aramis said, swallowing convulsively.

"Ah…um…wait, Aramis, hold on okay? Give me a sec."

Athos quickly walked down the stairs, passed his two friends and reached for a bucket. He backed the injured man up until he was sitting on a chair and placed the bucket in his hands as his stomach started to rid itself of its contents. D'Artagnan and Athos both turned away while Aramis retched continuously for the next few minutes.

"We need to get him back to the infirmary," d'Artagnan winced sympathetically. "Being ill like this can't be good for him."

"Not to mention the waste of good wine," Athos deadpanned.

By the time they'd turned back, the marksman and the bucket were listing dangerously.

"Oh no you don't," d'Artagnan said, quickly stepping forward and grabbing an arm. "It took me long enough to get you on your feet last time."

He grimaced, took the bucket and placed on the ground behind them as Aramis started to list again. Taking one arm each they hauled him to his feet, each stepping closer to prevent Aramis from becoming too disoriented. Placing his arms around their shoulders, they each wrapped one of their own arms around his waist to support him.

"Do you have him?" Athos asked the Gascon.

"Have who?" Aramis answer instead.

"I've got him," d'Artagnan said, rolling his eyes at the marksman's confusion.

Aramis stumbled and staggered several times but Athos and d'Artagnan managed to guide him safely to the bottom of the stairs

"Listen to me, Aramis," Athos said sternly. "We are going up those stairs. Let d'Artagnan and me do the work."

The marksman nodded his head sullenly all signs of the jovial drunk had disappeared into the bucket when his stomach purged itself of the alcohol. They looked up in alarm when Porthos' voice boomed from the top landing.

"What the hell's takin' so long?" he huffed impatiently. "He shoulda been back in the infirmary by now. Look at 'im...he's nearly out on his feet."

"Let's just say that his current lack of cooperation is exceeded only by his current lack of coordination," d'Artagnan replied.

"I heard that," Aramis mumbled.

"If you have any better ideas of how to get him there, dear Porthos, please do let us know," Athos told him, struggling under Aramis' weight.

Porthos marched down the stairs and stood, hands on hips, in front of his intoxicated friend. The marksman was braced between d'Artagnan and Athos, his head bowed forward and his chin resting on his chest. Porthos smiled ruefully at his best friend.

"I got 'im," he said.

Without another word, the larger man bent at the knees and heaved Aramis over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes before negotiating the stairs and heading for the infirmary.

For several long moments after their friends disappeared from sight, the two remaining Musketeers looked on in astonishment.

"Or...you could just do that," Athos quipped and with a shrug of their shoulders, he and d'Artagnan proceeded up the stairs to the infirmary.

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0-0oo00oo0**


	6. Chapter 6

Grunting from the exertion of bearing his friend's weight, Porthos made his way back into the infirmary.

"Put me down," Aramis growled.

Leaning forward to deposit the inebriated man on his own two unsteady feet, the large musketeer shook his head sadly as he took in the sight of his friend. Aramis had always taken pride in his appearance –a fact that had generated much playful ribbing from his friends. The usually impeccably dressed young man now stood before him; barefoot, his dark hair wild and untamed, his clothes disheveled and his white shirt saturated with red wine and well beyond salvaging. Porthos shot out a stabilizing hand when the younger man swayed precariously.

"M fine!" the marksman mumbled shrugging off the assistance. "I am not some hot house lily that needs to be carried to…to…just where did you carry me?"

"Back to the infirmary," Porthos told him patiently. "Doctor Lemay's here to examine you."

"Lemay?" Aramis repeated. "The King's personal syphician?"

Porthos couldn't help but smile at the mispronunciation.

"That's right, mon frere, the King's personal physician."

Aramis cocked his head, listening to the sound of the approaching footsteps and startled when Lemay lightly touched his shoulder.

"Monsieur Aramis!" Lemay began. "How nice to see you again!"

"Wish I could say the same, Doctor," Aramis replied, with a laugh. "But, at this point, I would be…be delighted to see anyone."

"Be nice," Porthos scolded gently. "He's 'ere to 'help you."

Suitably chastened, Aramis placed his hand over his heart and turned in the direction of the physician's voice.

"I beg your pardon, Doctor, it appears the 'splosion also…also robbed me of my manners," he said with a courtly bow that would have ended painfully had Porthos not moved to steady him.

Athos and d'Artagnan entered the infirmary at that moment, both nodding a greeting to Lemay and staring curiously at the stranger observing from across the room.

"I don't believe we've been introduced," Athos said courteously.

"Of course we have," the marksman replied sibilantly. "It's me, Ara…Aramis."

D'Artagnan couldn't prevent the bark of laughter that escaped but he at least had the sense to look chastened when Porthos gave him a glare that could have ended the ice age. The younger man was spared from further scrutiny when Aramis' knees buckled and the larger man had to quickly adjust his hold and sit him on the edge of the bed.

"I was referring to the young gentleman standing by the windows," Athos continued.

"This is Thierry Leon," Porthos replied. "He's here to 'elp the doc."

"We are pleased to make your acquaintance," Athos replied. "I am Athos, this is d'Artagnan. I believe you have already met Porthos… and the one who looks like he fell into a wine vat, is Aramis," he said dryly.

Oblivious to the conversation going on around him, Aramis placed his elbows on his knees and cradled his head to curb the dizziness.

"Let's get you outta that wet shirt," Porthos said, reaching to gently pull on the thin ties fastening the top of the marksman's shirt.

Aramis batted his hands away in irritation.

"I can do it!" he snapped peevishly, causing Porthos to raise his hands in supplication and step back.

"I think I prefer the happy drunk," d'Artagnan whispered loudly.

Aramis turned sharply to his left and pinned d'Artagnan with a menacing glare that would have been more effective had the Gascon not been standing on Aramis' right – but the younger man got the gist nonetheless.

Aramis' uncoordinated attempts to undo the ties of his shirt continued to infuriate him until finally, with a growl of frustration, he grabbed a lapel in each fist and tore the garment open, exposing his chest and abdomen. Exhausted, he fell back onto the bed, his chest heaving from the exertion.

"That works, too," Porthos shrugged.

Working quickly while Aramis was compliant, Athos and Porthos changed his shirt and positioned some pillows behind his back.

Watching as Lemay prepared his instruments, d 'Artagnan could not help but notice the young physician's attire – the satin doublet, wired Medici collar and hose worn over cannions and tucked into a pair of ornate heeled shoes. While the clothes may have been the height of fashion at the palace, here at the garrison, such finery was rarely seen.

"Would you gentlemen please step outside while I conduct my examination?" the physician asked.

With a reluctant nod of his head, Athos gave the back of Aramis' neck a quick squeeze.

"We'll be right outside," he said and started for the door while Porthos crouched by his friend's side and placed his large hand on Aramis' chest to ground him.

"You behave or I'll come back in 'ere and kick your arse, yeah?" he said in a tone that held no rancor.

The marksman gave a weak laugh and Porthos followed Athos from the room. Taking Porthos' place beside the bed, d'Artagnan lightly held his friend's wrist.

"We'll be back directly," he said.

Aramis closed his eyes and swallowed convulsively; breathing deeply through his nose to stem the nausea he was feeling. Remembering the close call between his inebriated friend and his new boots, d'Artagnan snatched up a nearby bowl and thrust it at the doctor as he made his way to the door.

"Trust me," the younger man said over his shoulder. "Your shoes will thank me."

**0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0**

Leaning heavily on the railing outside of his office, Captain Treville squinted against the late afternoon sun and surveyed the courtyard below. He wasn't surprised in the least to see three of his Musketeers waiting by the infirmary door for news of their fourth. He watched as d'Artagnan paced back and forth impatiently while Porthos and Athos sat in quiet contemplation.

The captain sighed deeply as he headed toward the infirmary. He had no doubt that, for these three men, the world had rotated off its axis, leaving their universe feeling unstable and off-kilter. He'd seen it more times than he cared to remember, when injury or illness had befallen one or more of them. Whether it was in the heat of battle or a mundane guard duty assignment, Aramis' quick smile, irreverent humour and the odd ribald comment was often the only thing that could invoke a chuckle from Porthos, ease the tension in d'Artagnan's slim shoulders or conjure a hint of a smile from the imperturbable Athos.

As their commanding officer, there had been many times when such comments had given Treville cause to give the brash young man a stern dressing-down or his customary icy glare. But there had been many more occasions when Aramis' wit had provided his comrades with relief, hope and even laughter in the midst of the bleakest situations.

As he closed the distance to his men, Treville cast a scrutinizing eye over them, noting the exhaustion that appeared to roll off them in waves. If ever there was a time when Aramis' humour would be welcomed…

Seeing their captain approach, Porthos and Athos began to rise but Treville waved them back down, dispensing with formalities.

"Any news?" he asked.

"Not as yet," Athos stated with his usual composure. "Doctor Lemay is still with him."

"Is there any chance of me persuading you all to get some rest?" Treville asked, causing the three men to straighten their posture in silent protest. "I can make it an order."

"Of course you can," Athos stated, his lips twitching in response to the impotent threat. "But you won't."

"Perhaps you're right," Treville replied with a small grin of his own.

The captain took a seat with his men as they continued to wait in silence. Twenty minutes later, they launched to their feet when the infirmary door opened and Lemay and Thierry stepped out.

"How is he," d'Artagnan asked stepping forward anxiously. "Will he regain his sight?"

"D'Artagnan," Athos said calmly. "Let them speak."

"Of course," the younger man mumbled apologetically.

Doctor Lemay took a steadying breath and looked at the anxious faces before him.

"He's resting quietly," Lemay said. "Between the tincture and the alcohol, I'm surprised he's conscious at all. I have given Aramis a thorough examination and I do not believe his eyes were damaged in the explosion."

"Then why can't he see?" d'Artagnan asked, raising his hands in apology when Athos cast another glare his way.

"Gentlemen, you must understand...the human brain is a very complex organ. The world's most brilliant minds can only speculate on the full extent of its function. However, there are numerous cases where the loss of one's sight occurred, not due to injury to the eyes but as a result of an injury to the brain."

"The physician, Chevalier, said the same," Treville told him.

"You're agreeing with Chevalier!" d'Artagnan scoffed. "The man is a quack!"

"My dear d'Artagnan," Lemay replied curtly. "A physician's skill should not be measured by whether or not you approve of the diagnosis. It may be difficult to accept but, in this instance, Doctor Chevalier's diagnosis was correct."

Frustrated and concerned for his friend, d'Artagnan turned his back and carded the fingers of one hand through his long hair as he tried to slow his breathing. The weight of Athos' hand on his shoulder helped to mollify him.

Giving his men a moment to regroup, Treville continued the discussion.

"So, you believe that the blow to Aramis' head has caused his loss of sight?" he reiterated.

"Yes, I do," Lemay nodded. "It would also explain the crippling headaches he is experiencing."

"What is the prognosis of such an injury?" Athos asked.

"At this point, I'm afraid that is impossible to determine. In some recorded cases, the blindness lasted just a few days but in others, the affect was permanent," the doctor told him. "Aramis' sight could be partially restored, fully restored or…it may never return at all."

"And if he remains blind?" Athos asked quietly.

"He won't!" d'Artagnan growled, turning suspiciously bright eyes toward the physician. "You just said that this could be temporary! For all we know, Aramis' sight could return by tomorrow!"

"I pray that is the case," Lemay replied. "But you'll do your friend no service by denying the possibility that this may be permanent."

Thierry Leon said stepped forward from where he'd been quietly listening.

"Doctor Lemay is correct," he said. "In my experience, if Aramis is to adapt to a life of blindness, he needs to accept his condition as quickly as possible. There are many things he can learn that will allow him a certain amount of independence but, as his closest friends, your role in his acceptance will be paramount."

"What exactly do you have in mind?" the captain asked.

"My sister and I run a school for the blind on the outskirts of Paris," Thierry told them. "We have a small community of sighted and non-sighted people of all ages. We teach those without sight to care for themselves and live and work together; basically, to learn how to live without sight. I can arrange for Aramis to accompany me when I return home in three days."

"No!" d'Artagnan said vehemently. "Absolutely not! Aramis is a musketeer - his place is here, with us."

"I know this is difficult for you all but surely you understand that, without sight, Aramis' days as a musketeer are over?"

"With sight or without, Aramis will  _always_  be a Musketeer," d'Artagnan said, struggling to keep the emotion from his voice. "Musketeers take care of their own."

"I believe what d'Artagnan is trying to say is that it is too soon to make such decisions," Athos stated. "Aramis is barely hanging on."

"Believe me, Monsieur, in situations like this, sooner is better," Thierry replied. "Tonight's episode in the wine cellar could have ended tragically. In my experience, individuals with new vision loss are at high risk for depression. Learning how to stay active and independent is in his best interests."

"What if his sight comes back in a few days or a few weeks?" d'Artagnan asked.

"And what if it don't return at all?" Porthos replied quietly. All heads turned as the large musketeer entered the discussion for the first time.

D'Artagnan's jaw fell open.

"Wait…you want him to leave?" the Gascon asked incredulously.

"Of course not! But this ain't about what I want or what you want," Porthos said in a rare gentle timbre. "This is about Aramis and what's best for 'im. Whether you're willing to admit it or not, he's gonna need someone with 'im night and day till he learns 'ow to take care of 'imself. This has to be 'is decision and whatever he decides, I'm gonna be right there beside 'im."

"Aramis is strong. He will get through this," Athos said with certainty.

Nodding his head in agreement, Porthos stood to his full height and walked toward his brothers, extending his right arm before them.

"All for one," he said sombrely.

With the hint of a smile, Athos placed his hand over Porthos' and they both turned to face d'Artagnan. Though still not entirely convinced, the younger man could not,  _would not_ , allow his brothers to face something of this magnitude without standing by their sides in full support. Huffing a laugh that owed nothing to humour, he stepped forward, placed his hand over his brothers' and met their gaze.

"And one for all," they said together.

Watching on, Treville swiped a gloved hand over his jaw; a warm feeling of pride expanding in his chest. Clearing his throat, he rid his voice of emotion and turned to the doctor.

"Have you spoken to Aramis about your diagnosis?" he asked Lemay.

"I make it a habit to keep all of my patients well informed," Doctor Lemay replied.

"How did he take it," d'Artagnan asked.

"Not well," Lemay replied with a shake of his head. "He refused to even consider the possibility that his sight may not return, let alone accept our help."

"He could give stubborn lessons to a mule, that one," Porthos lamented.

"Then we have a problem," Thierry told them.

"Just one?" d'Artagnan asked dryly.

"I cannot teach anyone who does not wish to learn," Thierry continued. "I need you to help me convince him."

"Aramis may not always act in his own best interests," Athos told him. "Nonetheless, he is a grown man; a brother Musketeer. As Porthos said, any decision concerning his future has to be his. But we can hardly asked him to focus on his future when he is struggling with the present."

"I understand," Thierry replied.

"Can we see him?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Of course," Lemay answered. "I've left more tincture by his bed should he need it. See that he takes it, the headaches, when they come, are brutal."

"Thank you for your time," Athos said with a nod. "Both of you."

"I serve at His Majesty's pleasure," Lemay replied. "Both he and the queen have taken a keen interest in Aramis' well-being. Should he require my assistance, please do not hesitate to send for me."

"It's late," Treville said. "We can provide food and lodging for you both for the night. It's not as lavish as the palace but the food is hot and the beds clean and warm."

As Treville ushered the physician and Thierry to the refectory for a meal and a glass of wine, the musketeers quietly entered the infirmary.

**0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0**

The candle light in the infirmary cast a serene, golden glow over everything in its reach. Aramis lay in the bunk, the pain lines on his forehead evidence of the headache had followed him into sleep. His lips were slightly parted and his head canted on an angle that guaranteed a stiff neck. As quietly as they could, his friends took as seat by the marksman's bedside.

The scrape of d'Artagnan's chair on the floor startled the sleeping man; his sightless eyes flew open and he lifted both arms into a defensive position.

"Whoa, easy now. It's just us," Porthos said, placing his large hand on Aramis' chest and gently pushing him back to the thin mattress.

The marksman's chest heaved for several moments as he fought to calm his breathing.

"You heard?" he said, finally breaking the silence.

"If you mean have we spoken to Doctor Lemay the answer is yes," Athos replied.

"Then you know they...they wish to send me away," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Never mind what they want," Porthos told him. "It's what you want that matters."

Aramis nodded his head; wincing as it exacerbated the throbbing behind his eyes. He pressed the heel of his hand into his temple and sighed at the fleeting relief.

"How bad?" Athos asked.

"I'm fine," Aramis replied with a smile that looked more like a grimace.

"Don't," the swordsman told him. "Don't shrug your shoulders and tell us you are fine. Don't pretend you can deal with this by yourself. You cannot do this alone Aramis. You are blind! This is not something you can ignore and hope it goes away."

" _You think I don't know that?" Aramis yelled, his eyes bright with raw emotion. "My whole life changed in an instant and I don't know what to do. I'm afraid. Is that what you wanted me to say? Does hearing me say it make you feel better?"_  he challenged.

Athos waited a moment, listening to the sound of his friend's ragged breathing before he softly replied.

"On the contrary, my brother. It is my fervent hope that saying the words makes  _you_  feel better."

He wrapped an arm gently around Aramis' shoulders and pulled him into a comforting one-arm hug, surprised when the younger man did not pull away but leant into it. There were no tears and no sobs but Athos felt the fine tremors as the younger man battled fiercely with his self-control.

"We're right 'ere by your side, Aramis…let us 'elp you," Porthos said.

"Please, let us help," d'Artagnan pleaded.

Aramis dropped his guard for just a few seconds but long enough for his friends to recognise the signs. He swallowed hard and took a moment to compose himself as his body shuddered under the onslaught of his pent-up emotions. He gave a short nod of agreement.

"You humble me, my brothers," he whispered.

"Now that's settled, let's try this again," Athos said. "On a scale of one to ten, how bad is your headache?"

"Fourteen," Aramis replied, earning a raised eyebrow from the older man.

"Arithmetic was never your strong suit," the swordsman stated dryly. "Perhaps it's time for more tincture?"

Aramis nodded his agreement and Porthos measured out the required dose before handing to the injured man. He drank it down quickly, scowling at the bitter taste and leaning back into his pillows.

"I don't want to go," he said quietly. "The garrison is my home. My friends are here…my brothers. My sight  _will_  return. I  _know_  it will."

"Then we need to find a compromise," Porthos replied.

**0-0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0-0**

Treville, Doctor Lemay and Thierry looked confused as they trailed d'Artagnan back into the infirmary.

"What's this about?" Treville asked, looking at the tussle-headed, young man in the bed, fighting the pull of the pain medication.

"We know that the good doctor and Thierry both 'ave Aramis' best interest at 'eart," Porthos said. "But the fact is, 'e just aint ready to leave the garrison."

"There's more," Athos said flatly.

"With Captain Treville's permission, we propose a compromise," d'Artagnan continued. "Aramis will remain in our care for two weeks. If, after that time, his sight has not returned, he will join Thierry at the blind school."

Thierry nodded his head in agreement.

"Two weeks," he said. "We can work around that."

"And, still more," Athos stated, directing his attention to Thierry. "These techniques you teach at your blind school. We need you to impart as many as possible before you leave in the morning."

Thierry's eyebrows knitted as he looked at Aramis, softly snoring in the bed.

"Who will be my student?"

Porthos, Athos and d'Artagnan stood shoulder to shoulder.

"We will," they replied together.

**0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0-0**


	7. Chapter 7

Constance sat quietly in the corner of the small room, busily darning stockings that had seen better days – anything to keep her hands busy and her mind occupied. Slight movement from the bed captured her attention and she watched as Aramis slowly climbed from the depths of a drug-induced sleep. His chest rose and fell with each deep breath, as if he were building the courage to open his eyes. Finally, his lids tentatively opened to an inky blackness and, totally deflated, he dropped his head back into the pillow, a look of heartbreaking desolation on his face.

Her throat closed up and the knot in her chest clenched so tightly she could barely breathe. Aramis' mask had slipped – the nearly impenetrable wall had buckled and the young man's humour and bravado were nowhere to be seen as he gave a rare glimpse of the vulnerability that resided deep within.

Just like her brothers, Aramis brought out both ends of Constance's emotional spectrum. The marksman could be charming and kind and could twist her heart into a pretzel...or he could irritate her until she slapped the exasperating grin from his handsome face. A small smile teased the corner of her mouth.

' _Worrying over this lot will send me to an early grave,'_  she thought.

Another few moments passed and just as she'd thought sleep had reclaimed him, he rubbed his face with his hands and sat up.

"I need to piss," he muttered to whichever of his brothers was watching over him.

"Well, good morning to you, too, sunshine!" she replied, almost guffawing at the mortified expression that appeared on his face.

"Constance?" he said, the heat of a blush colouring the cheeks of his otherwise pale face. "My apologies, Madame, I was not expecting-"

"Oh, go on with you," Constance said dismissively. "You're forgetting I was raised with brothers.

Aramis' smile was more of a simper and not a patch on his usual charming countenance.

"The others?"

"D'Artagnan and Athos are assigned to guard duty at the palace," she told him. "And Porthos is…well he's around here somewhere. Should I fetch him?"

When Aramis remained silent, Constance moved forward and placed her hand on his arm.

"Aramis? What is it?"

"Something's different," he said frowning. "The bed, the smell-"

"You're back in your own quarters," she told him. "Porthos brought you up here last night. Do you not remember?"

Aramis shook his head, belatedly regretting the action.

"He really needs to stop carrying me around like a helpless child," he muttered, carding agitated fingers through his unruly mop.

"If it's any consolation, I'm told it was more like a helpless sack of potatoes," she quipped, grinning as Aramis groaned his disapproval. "Anyway, Thierry thought you'd be more comfortable in your own space."

"How long have you been here watching me sleep?" he asked.

"About as long as it took me to clean up this place," she replied. "Between the ash and the soot from the explosion, it was a right mess. But the captain replaced the wood burner a few days back and we salvaged what we could so it's good as new."

"You should not have gone to such trouble."

"Nonsense! Anyway, it's all part of Thierry's training," she explained. "Starting right now, you keep this place nice and orderly. And by orderly, I don't mean clothing dropped on the floor or hung over the back of a chair."

"Now you're channeling my mother," he shuddered. "Why is it suddenly of such great importance for my quarters to be so…orderly?"

"Why do you think, silly? So you can find what it is you're looking for without falling over and breaking your bleeding neck," she told him, taking hold of his hand and helping him to his feet. "Come on…I'll show you."

Walking him a few feet from the bed, she guided his hands to a large pitcher of water and basin that sat on the top of a small dresser. A pair of grooming scissors, a hairbrush and a small bar of soap lay nearby. Constance lifted the soap to her face and inhaled the aroma.

"Really, Aramis," she teased. "Scented soap? How very decadent."

"T'was a gift from a fair mademoiselle," he grinned cheekily.

"Was there ever any doubt?" she laughed.

Continuing on, Constance explained how she'd arranged his clothes – socks and braies in the top drawer, shirts and breeches in the second. His boots were placed on the floor next to the dresser. In the small wardrobe, hung his leathers – his doublet, pants and long coat - and by the door another small table had been placed and his weapons and ammunition carefully positioned.

"And my wine?" he asked. "I had a small crate."

"No more wine for you, Monsieur," she said firmly. "Leastwise not while you're taking pain medication. I've given it to someone for safe keeping."

"Not Athos," he quipped, feigning panic. "Please tell me it wasn't Athos."

"D'Artagnan has it," she laughed; delighted to see a glimpse of his humour. "Oh, and I put your books and writing material on the desk by the window where you'd get the best light."

Aramis' back stiffened and Constance gasped as she realized her mistake.

"Oh God, Aramis, I'm so sorry," she said taking his hand. "I wasn't thinking."

His smile did its level best to hide the pain that flashed in his eyes and she silently cursed herself for causing it.

"Think nothing of it, dear Constance, you have been most kind," he said, squeezing her hand gently. "However, it appears you have overlooked something of great importance."

"I have?" Constance asked, looking around the room and taking a mental inventory. "What is it?"

"I still need to relieve myself," he grinned, "now more than ever."

"Oh…of course," she said, only slightly flustered as she led him to the far corner of the room. "The chamber pot's under the chair. Shall I?"

"I think I can take it from here," he told her.

"Of course, you can," she replied, crossing the room to the door. She stopped suddenly, turning with a mischievous glint in her eye. "Shoot straight, Monsieur Musketeer, or you'll be mopping up your own mess."

He grinned again as her melodic laughter followed her out the door.

**0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0**

Having successfully and accurately taken care of business, Aramis crossed to the dresser and poured a small amount of water from the pitcher into the basin to wash his face. Feeling ridiculously proud of the small accomplishment, he dressed in a clean shirt and breeches and was just pulling his boots on when Porthos knocked on the door.

The large Musketeer's face lit up to see his friend up and dressed. However, he was wary of heaping too much praise on the fiercely independent younger man - that was not their way. During this time of complete turmoil, when everything in his life had changed, Aramis needed a constant – he needed Porthos to be Porthos.

"Bout time you got up! You've slept the morning away," was all Porthos said but Aramis heard the unspoken words of pride…and that was enough. "Come on. I'm starving."

"Are we not having breakfast here?" Aramis asked tentatively.

"You want breakfast in bed? Go see one of your Mademoiselles," he answered frankly. "We're eatin' in the refectory, like we always do."

Aramis paled slightly at the thought of other Musketeers seeing him so uncoordinated and vulnerable. Reading his thoughts, Porthos replied gently.

"Those who aren't on assignment are on leave," he said. "Apart from the cap'n and old Serge, we got the place to ourselves. 'ow bout it? You up for a walk?"

Aramis suppressed his panic and took some deep calming breaths. Porthos' large hand on his shoulder grounding him and he nodded his head in agreement.

"I got ya," the larger man said. "I won't let anything 'appen to ya."

"I know," Aramis replied.

"It's time you got some fresh air," Porthos said. "Come on! On ya feet!"

Explaining the procedure as Thierry had the previous night, the large Musketeer offered Aramis his left arm and instructed him to place his right hand above Porthos' elbow with his fingers on the inside of the arm and the thumb on the outside. The grip positioned the younger man half a pace behind him, enabling Aramis to detect any changes of Porthos' body movements, like turning left or right or stepping up or down.

Tentatively, they left the sanctuary of Aramis' quarters and made their way slowly across the compound to the refectory where they were greeted enthusiastically by Serge who rushed back to kitchen to prepare their breakfast. Aramis turned his head toward the sun, enjoying the warmth on his skin.

"You alright?" Porthos asked. "You're not feeling dizzy or nothin'"

"I'm fine, a little disoriented is all," Aramis replied as his stomach growled loudly. "And, apparently, quite hungry."

"Well, eat up. You'll need a good breakfast for what I got planned," the larger Musketeer told him.

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that," Aramis said warily.

"You're gonna love it," Porthos said with a toothy grin. "Trust me!"

Serge returned to the table carrying a covered basket and placing it on the table in front of Aramis.

"I 'aven't made these in…well, in a good few years," he said. "But with them being your favourite and all, I thought I'd make you up a batch."

Serge removed the cover and the Musketeers were immediately assailed by the sweet, mouth-watering aroma.

"Brioche," Aramis rasped around the sudden lump in his throat. He held out his hand and waited until the callused and arthritic hand grasped it warmly. "Thank you, old friend. You are too kind."

Serge placed a receptacle in Aramis' other hand.

"What's brioche without honey, eh?" he asked.

"Oi!" Porthos protested. "Why's he gettin' such a fancy breakfast?"

"Because he's me favourite, that's why," Serge replied. "I don't need no other reason."

With his jaw hanging open, Porthos watched the old man limp back into the kitchen before turning back to see Aramis wearing a grin the Cheshire Cat would be proud to call his own. Placing a still warm brioche in the younger man's hand, Porthos shook his head and huffed out a laugh.

"Shut up and eat," he told his friend.

"I didn't say a word," Aramis replied innocently.

They ate in companionable silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Porthos cast his mind back to when he had found his friend, badly wounded and near frozen to death; abandoned in a field of snow and dead Musketeers. Aramis' physical wounds were serious and took time to heal but it was the emotional wounds that almost killed him.

Lack of sleep and loss of appetite had ravaged his already lean body until only sunken cheeks and a painfully thin frame remained. During the seemingly endless period of nightmares or insomnia, Porthos had found his friend in the refectory with Serge who had, somehow, encouraged the young man to eat a brioche. Although reluctant at first, Aramis enjoyed the sweet bun and honey and returned for more the following night and every night thereafter until, eventually, his appetite and his body weight returned.

Catching movement in his peripheral, Porthos turned his head toward the refectory door where Serge stood watching Aramis eating the sweet buns. Exchanging a knowing glance with Porthos, the older man smiled sadly and returned to the kitchen.

**0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0**

"You comin'?" Porthos asked.

"I'm not sure about this, Porthos," Aramis said nervously. "Successfully negotiating an empty compound hardly compares with strolling down the busy streets of Paris."

"I agree."

"You do?" Aramis asked. "So, I'm free to go back to my quarters and rest?"

"No…but if it makes you feel any better, we will not be strolling down the busy streets of Paris."

Helping Aramis to his feet, Porthos took the younger man's right hand and, again, wrapped the fingers around his left arm and began walking.

"Can't you at least give me a hint," Aramis asked testily.

"Alright…there's a beautiful Madame who's anxious to spend time in your company," the larger man said.

"Porthos, please," Aramis grinned mischievously. "There are many beautiful Madames seeking to share my company; if you wish me to guess which one, you're going to have to be a little more specific."

The large Musketeer barked out a laugh.

"That knock to the 'ead didn't damage that ego of yours."

"Ego is such a harsh term, mom frère, I prefer amour-propre."

Porthos stopped abruptly causing Aramis to walk into him.

"We're 'ere," he said.

"We haven't yet left the garrison," Aramis frowned in confusion.

"We don't need to, she's right 'ere," Porthos told him.

Aramis tilted his head, listening closely to the sounds around him and frowning at the slow steady steps of an approaching horse. Stopping alongside her master, the mare turned her fine head and nickered softly as she prodded Aramis' shoulder with her soft nose. The young man's face lit up with the first genuine smile Porthos had seen since the explosion and he ran his hands over his beloved mare and pressed his face into her broad neck.

"Serge 'as packed us a lunch," Porthos told him. "What do you say we take this beauty and get outta Paris for a while?"

Earlier, Porthos had removed Aramis' tack from the community tack room and positioned it in his mare's stall, where the marksman could find it easily. Saddling his mare proved to be much easier than Aramis imagined and he recalled how many times he'd saddled his horse without even thinking when exhaustion, injury, or fever had addled his mind.

The larger man watched his friend proudly before stepping closer to the mare to silently test the girth strap. He didn't wish to offend Aramis nor did he wish to explain to Athos and d'Artagnan how he'd let the independent younger man fall on his head - although judging from the wry smile on the marksman's lips, it was a fair bet that Aramis knew exactly what his over-protective friend was doing.

Leading his tall bay from the stalls, Porthos drew alongside Aramis' mare in time to see a flash of panic in the younger man's eyes.

"What?" Porthos said, clipping a lead rope to the mare's bridle. "You didn't think we were gonna double?"

"Of course not," Aramis replied nervously.

"Good then. You need a leg up?"

"Not on my worse day," the younger man replied.

Feeling his way, he grasped the pommel with his left hand, placed his left foot into the stirrup and swung into the saddle. He swayed a little but steadied quickly. Porthos tapped his knee to gain his attention.

"Take the reins but I got her on the lead rope; she aint going nowhere she shouldn't. We take this nice and easy and if you get dizzy or sick, you let me know. I'll be right beside you every step of the way."

Aramis took a few deep breaths before leaning forward to pat his mare's neck.

"I'm ready," he said.

**0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0-0**

During the course of the previous evening, Thierry had told them that the best way to build Aramis' confidence and to keep him from succumbing to depression, was to have him participate in the things he loved best. Aramis was a born horseman and loved to spend time riding in the country with his mare. After leaving the safety of the garrison and entering the busy streets, the marksman's mood quickly deteriorated as the total vulnerability of blindness overwhelmed him and Porthos soon regretted subjecting the younger man to more anxiety. Watching him closely, Porthos guided the horses through the fastest route out of Paris.

The marksman was unusually quiet, contributing only monosyllabic answers as the larger man tried to engage him in their usual, friendly banter. Aramis' head swiveled anxiously from side to side; assailed by a cacophony of noises that are synonymous with a bustling city. He sat heavily in the saddle; his shoulders tense and a look of trepidation on his pale face. Sensing her master's tension, the mare began to toss her head nervously and her gait became agitated and uneven.

"You're doing great," Porthos said encouragingly. "Just try to relax."

Porthos firmly believed the younger man to be one of the best horsemen in the regiment. Through hours of arduous training, he had developed an uncanny partnership with his mare who responded instantly to his subtle touch or whispered instruction. Many times, he had witnessed his friend reloading his musket at a full gallop, urging his mare faster or slower, left or right with only the barest squeeze of his legs or a slight change of position in the saddle.

Despite their slow pace, they were soon travelling on the open road and with the sensory overload of Paris now behind them, Aramis and began to relax. The marksman's confidence increased and, as a result, his posture, balance and poise returned. He continued to whisper words of comfort and encouragement, though Porthos was not entirely sure whether he was speaking to the mare or himself.

Arriving at their destination, Porthos helped his friend dismount and settled him against a fallen log by a small pond. As Porthos tethered the horses, the younger man turned his face toward the warmth of the sun and relished the warm breeze that lifted the perspiration from his hair and replaced it with the faint scent of chestnuts. They ate a meal of cheese, fruit and bread and Aramis was only slightly miffed that Porthos had brought waters rather than wine.

With their appetites sated, they laid back on the cool grass, chatting amiably and enjoying the afternoon sun. Just when Porthos thought the younger man had dozed off, Aramis broke the silence between them.

"I'd like to see Antoine's family," he said quietly.

"Not sure that's a good idea," Porthos replied. "His uncle blames the Musketeers for Antoine's death."

"The man is grieving the loss of his nephew," Aramis told him. "I'd like to speak with him, pay my respects."

Porthos scrubbed his hand over his face. As much as he hated keeping secrets from his friend, he could hardly tell Aramis that Benoit blamed him for Antoine's death and had threatened to petition the King to have the marksman charged with murder. He knew from experience that it didn't take much for the younger man to over analyze his own actions and motives. Aramis was still coming to terms with his loss of sight and the last thing he needed was to deal with misplaced guilt.

"Let's give it a few days. See how you're feeling, yeah?" the larger man said hoping to drop the subject. But true to his nature, the marksman was like a dog with a bone.

"It just doesn't make any sense," Aramis continued.

"What don't make sense?"

"I knew Antoine better than anyone else in the regiment," he said. "He was proud to work at the garrison, he enjoyed working with the horses and he looked forward to commencing his training as a blacksmith. I cannot believe he bore any bad will about not being accepted as a cadet."

"Yeah, well, sometimes we don't know people as well as we think," Porthos told him. "You didn't notice any changes in the lad this last week?"

Aramis rubbed his forehead and felt the return of a headache building behind his eyes. He winced as he cast his mind back to the previous week.

"He was quiet...like his mind was elsewhere," Aramis admitted reluctantly. "I asked what was troubling him but he would not say."

"I'll bet," Porthos muttered. "Don't worry about it now; you're supposed to be resting."

"It still doesn't make any sense," Aramis whispered as his eyes closed of their own volition. "He was my friend."

Aramis remained quiet and, not long after, Porthos thanked whatever deity was listening as he recognized his friend's soft snoring. As he watched his friend sleep, he reflected on Aramis' words. The younger man gave the appearance of nonchalance and indifference but he valued friendship more than almost anyone Porthos had ever known. Marsac's reappearance and subsequent death by the marksman's own hand had affected him deeply...was it any wonder Aramis was so reluctant to believe that, yet again, he had been betrayed in the most devastating way?

Porthos checked the position of the sun, ensuring he left enough daylight to return to the garrison before pulling the brim of his hat over his eyes to join his Aramis in slumber.

**0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0-0**

The sun was low in the western sky. The pink and orange glow staining the horizon was rapidly being pursued by the dark shadows of the approaching evening. Athos and d'Artagnan, having finished their guard duty at the palace, had returned to the garrison to find Porthos and Aramis gone. To add to their concern, both horses were missing from the stables.

"I'll kill him," Athos said for the fourth time in an hour.

"I'm sure they're fine," the younger man said.

"Or...Aramis may have taken ill or, worse yet, fallen on his head."

"He'll be fine," d'Artagnan insisted. "Porthos is with him."

"Oh yes, the only man in Paris with a thicker skull than Aramis."

"Stop worrying. You're creating trouble where none exists," d'Artagnan offered.

"Perhaps, but Aramis is supposed to be resting."

"Porthos will see that he rests," the young man said. "Thierry did say that we should ease Aramis into the activities he enjoys."

Athos tore his eyes from the garrison gate to scowl at the Gascon.

"Allowing a blind man to ride a horse through the streets of Paris is hardly what I would call 'easing,'" he replied curtly.

"Porthos will see that he comes to no harm," d'Artagnan said with certainty. "You'll see."

"I take it you are not concerned?"

"Not in the slightest," d'Artagnan smiled brightly. "Because they just rode through the gate."

Turning his attention in the direction of the gate, Athos' relief turned to barely controlled alarm when he noticed his friends riding double. Seated behind Aramis, the larger Musketeer was holding his friend safely against his chest while the younger man's head lolled forward. Athos and d'Artagnan rushed to meet them; taking the horses by the bridles to steady them.

"What happened?" Athos asked curtly.

"He's alright," Porthos said, holding up a gloved hand in supplication.

"And yet, he appears to be unconscious," Athos replied flatly.

"He's just sleeping," Porthos told them. "He got one of them 'eadaches…a real bad one. I gave 'im some tincture and between that and the fresh air he's been sleeping like a baby ever since."

Porthos rested his hand on his sleeping friend's shoulder and swallowed around the lump in his throat.

"You shoulda seen 'im today," he said, quietly. "He done real good. For the first time since he was 'urt, I really believe that, whatever 'appens, Aramis is gonna do just fine."

Athos reached up for the younger man; giving him a gentle shake.

"Aramis? Aramis?"

The younger man's brow creased and his head lolled in the swordsman's direction.

"Athos?" he whispered.

"Let's get you to your quarters," he said. "It appears you've had quite a day."

"My horse? Tell Antoine to…to brush her down well and give her…apple."

Athos raised a quizzical eyebrow and looked at Porthos.

"Antoine? Just how much of the tincture did you give him?" he asked.

"He's fine," Porthos insisted. "He's just a little out of it."

"I've got her, Aramis," d'Artagnan volunteered taking the mare's reins. "She'll be fine."

"Give me a 'and," Porthos asked as he lowered a boneless Aramis into Athos and d'Artagnan's waiting arms before dismounting and taking his place by his friend's side.

As they started for the marksman's quarters, Porthos lifted his head and looked at his brothers.

"You didn't think I'd let something 'appen to him, didja?" he asked.

"Not I," Athos scoffed. "But had you not returned when you did, I feel certain d'Artagnan would have pitched a fit."

D'Artagnan stood with his mouth agape; too shocked to protest.

"Shame on you, whelp," Porthos scolded, mildly. "Thought you'd know better by now."

"But…but I…"

Watching as his friends guided Aramis to his quarters; the young Gascon huffed out a laugh when he noticed the mischievous smirk on his mentor's lips.

tbc

**0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0-0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0-0**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you are still enjoying the story. If you've found any gaping holes or glaring errors, please let me know.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - real life is being a bear!

Athos rolled his shoulders and neck to ease the stiffness in his joints as he covered the distance from Aramis' quarters to the refectory. After spending the night in a chair in the marksman's room, he was keen to meet with d'Artagnan and Porthos before they headed out to the palace for their guard duty assignment. Although Treville couldn't spare them all from duty, he had rotated their shifts, allowing at least one of them to be with Aramis at all times.

"What's wrong?" Porthos asked, surprised to see the swordsman approach alone.

"Aramis is well," Athos said, allaying the larger man's fears. "For the moment, my presence is neither wanted nor needed."

"He threw you out?" d'Artagnan grinned.

"He did not throw me out. He simply stated - and I quote - 'if I wanted an audience while getting dressed, it would be someone much prettier and much sweeter smelling than the likes of you,'' Athos said with the hint of a smile on his phlegmatic features.

All three exchanged a grin, celebrating the fact that Aramis' independent streak was beginning to reemerge.

"How'd he sleep?" Porthos inquired.

"He scarcely moved a muscle all night," Athos advised, reaching to take some bread from Porthos' plate and receiving a frown for his trouble. "I'm unaware of the ingredients in that tincture but a small quantity would be a blessing the next time I'm to share a tent with either of you."

D'Artagnan snorted and pushed his uneaten bread toward the older man.

"So, what you got planned for the day?" Porthos asked.

"Aramis wishes to speak with Father Jean-Philippe," Athos replied.

"He wants to see a priest?" d'Artagnan asked. "What about?"

"It is not our place to ask," Athos told him before pinning Porthos with an dark look. "However, after being dragged around Paris on the back of a horse yesterday, I should imagine he wishes to give thanks for his survival."

"Oi, he enjoyed yesterday," Porthos defended before adding contritely. "Leastwise, he did when we were out of Paris and things got a little quieter."

"Nevertheless, our journey to Sainte Chapelle today will not be on horseback," Athos told him.

"That's quite a walk," d'Artagnan said.

"Serge is taking the wagon to the markets this morning," the swordsman said. "I have arranged for us to accompany him. Sainte Chapelle is but a short walk from there."

"I don't think that's such a good idea," Porthos said. "He gets them headaches when he overdoes things."

"Should Aramis falter, I have the tincture and will send word for Serge to collect us earlier than planned."

"Wait," d'Artagnan frowned. "Serge actually agreed to take you?"

Athos nodded. "Why would he not?"

"Just a few weeks ago I asked to ride with him into town when my horse was being re-shod," the younger man said, balling his hands on his hips. "He refused! He looked me squarely in the eye and said 'that's why God gave you feet.'"

"It 'elps if you're the favourite," Porthos chortled.

"I'm sorry?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Never mind," Porthos said, moving on. "We may 'ave another problem. Aramis was asking about Antoine. He wants to pay his respects to the lad's family.

"What did you tell him?" Athos asked flatly.

"I told 'im it's not a good time; that the uncle blames us for 'is nephew's death."

"And Aramis in particular," d'Artagnan said.

"Aramis 'ad a lot of time for the kid. He knew 'e was no Musketeers but 'e petitioned Treville to give him a job 'ere - he felt responsible for him."

"Certainly none of the cadets were game to say a word against Antoine lest Aramis hear about it," d'Artagnan replied.

"Weird thing is, Aramis swears the kid was happy working with the horses and becoming a blacksmith," the larger man said. "If he's right, what the kid wrote in that letter makes no sense at all."

"You think he was coerced?" d'Artagnan asked. "By who?"

Athos stroked his beard thoughtfully.

"You say the uncle refused Treville's offer to have Antoine buried here at the garrison?" he asked.

"Emphatically," d'Artagnan said. "He wouldn't hear of it."

"He told us to take the lad's body to the city morgue," Porthos told him. "Treville left enough money with the coroner to cover the cost of a burial when the family came for 'im. Trouble is, we don't know if the uncle actually claimed the body."

"Perhaps we should find out," Athos said. "The city morgue is close to Sainte Chapelle. I will leave Aramis in Father Jean-Philippe's care while I speak with the coroner."

"What are you going to tell Aramis?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Best we don't say nothin' to Aramis till we know more," Porthos said.

"I agree," Athos said.

D'Artagnan gulped the last of his wine and swiped his sleeve across his mouth to dry it.

"We need to be going or we'll be late," he said giving Porthos a nudge with his elbow.

The large musketeer rose slowly to his feet; his stomach growled and his mouth-watered as a familiar sweet aroma wafted from the kitchen.

"Did either of you know that Serge bakes brioche?" he asked.

"No," they answered simultaneously, watching him quizzically.

"Good," he said and, satisfied that he wasn't the only one missing out on baked goods, he headed off in the direction of the stables.

**0-0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0-0**

By the time Athos returned to Aramis' room, the younger man was dressed and was doing up the clasps of his doublet.

"Breakfast ready?" Aramis asked.

"After I see to your hands," Athos replied. "Sit."

Feeling his way back to the bed, Aramis sat and held his hands out to his friend. Athos unwound the bandage on the marksman's right hand.

"How is it?" the younger man asked.

The swordsman inspected both sides closely.

"The skin is tender but has healed well. How does it feel?"

Aramis clenched his hand into a fist before extending his fingers several times.

"There is no pain or stiffness."

Athos nodded his head, belatedly remembering his friend could not see his response.

"Let me see the other."

Unwrapping the bandages on Aramis' left hand, he frowned at the still healing burns.

"This one will need a little more time," he said, applying more salve and re-wrapping it in clean bandages. "Now, I believe Serge has our breakfast prepared."

Taking Aramis' hat from the hook near the door, Athos placed it on the marksman's head; making sure to tilt it just so, as he'd seen the younger man do many times.

"How do I look? Aramis asked.

"Abhorrently grotesque and offensive to the eyes," Athos replied with a smile in his voice.

"Athos, please…" the marksman countered, with a trademark grin. "Jealousy is the jaundice of the soul."

The swordsman snorted and nudged Aramis with his offered elbow; pleased when the younger man grasped it in his right hand and allowed himself to be led from the room.

**0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0**

As they walked cautiously across the compound to the refectory, Aramis' grip tightened on the swordsman's arm and Athos eased his pace to match his brother's. With his free hand, Aramis pulled the brim of his hat low over his face and Athos sighed, knowing his friend found it extremely humiliating to be seen as vulnerable and completely dependent on his brothers.

"The garrison is all but empty," Athos told him quietly. "Only Serge and a small squad remain."

Aramis gave a short nod in reply and his grip on Athos' elbow relaxed. Assisting the younger man to his seat, Athos sat across the table from him and Serge arrived a moment later, greeting Aramis with a gnarled hand on his shoulder and placing their meals on the table. Athos eyed the luscious looking brioche and honey in front of Aramis before scowling at the plain bread and cheese on his own plate. A smile teased at the corner of his mouth as he realized the reason for Porthos' earlier discontent.

They ate in comfortable silence until the swordsman noticed Aramis licking at his dry lips.

"Thirsty?" he asked.

"A little," Aramis replied. "Is there any wine?"

Remembering Thierry's instructions, Athos reached for an earth-ware cup and placed it into Aramis' left hand. He wrapped the marksman's long fingers around it and manoeuvred his friend's top finger just over the rim into the cup.

"There's a pitcher on the table, twelve inches directly in front of your right hand. Why don't you pour yourself a glass?"

"Athos..." Aramis said nervously.

"We are alone here, my brother," Athos said. "Lift the cup to the lip of the pitcher and pour until you feel the liquid touch your finger."

Looking apprehensive, Aramis tentatively reached out in front of him, locating the pitcher and then running his fingers over it until he located the handle. Moving the cup to the lip of the pitcher, he tilted it slightly and listened as the cup began to fill with wine. With his face etched in concentration, he continued pouring until he felt the cool, wet wine touch his finger. Placing the pitcher back on the table, his face lit up in a gleeful grin before he lifted his cup in a silent toast and took a sip.

Athos' lips curved in a gratified smile of his own.

"Do you intend to sit there grinning like a simpleton or are you going to pour me a drink?" he said with thinly disguised pride.

**0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0-0**

"I can drop you at the church, ya know," Serge said, looking over his shoulder at the two Musketeers riding in the back of the wagon. "Ain't no trouble."

"It is but a few blocks and a nice day for a walk," Athos replied.

The old man looked worriedly in Aramis' direction and shook his head.

"If you say so," he said unconvincingly before turning his attention back to driving the wagon.

As they travelled slowly through the Parisian streets, the two men sat on opposite sides of the wagon, leaning comfortably against the sides. To the casual observer, Aramis appeared to be asleep; his eyes were closed and his long dark lashes rested on too pale cheeks. But Athos knew that his friend was alert to every sound, his head moving minutely as he cataloged every noise and tried to identify the source.

The wagon's wheel lurched over the rutted roadway and Aramis' eyes shot opened in fright. His hands flailed seeking purchase as the sudden movement exacerbated his disorientation. Outstretched fingers found sanctuary in the sleeve of Athos' doublet and held on tightly like talons. Without uttering a word, Athos placed his hand over his friend's, squeezing gently until the tension in the younger man's body eased and, with a deep blush staining his cheeks, Aramis nodded his thanks and withdrew his hand.

Aramis had been a soldier his entire adult life and was, without doubt, one of the best Musketeers Athos was ever likely to know. True, the younger man could be impulsive and reckless but his courage, loyalty and skill were irrefutable.

In times of quiet contemplation, it was not uncommon for a soldier to imagine his own death and Athos was sure that Aramis had done so many times. Aramis was a spiritual man but the former Comte would bet his own life that the demise the younger man envisaged - and, perhaps, even hoped for - was to die like a soldier. There could be no greater distinction than to lose one's life nobly on a battlefield; courageously defending King, country and his fellow Musketeers.

What the younger man would never have contemplated is life without sight. Athos could not begin to comprehend the fear and anxiety that came with suddenly losing one's ability to see. The loss of independence, the struggle with the simplest of tasks and the sheer terror and danger that came with living in a world you could not see.

The swordsman had his own fears about how this fiercely independent and dynamic young man would cope if his sight did not return. Many times during the past few days, he, d'Artagnan and Porthos had assured Aramis that a life without sight was still a life – but, somehow, the words sounded shallow even to their own ears. Aramis' career as a Musketeer would most certainly be over and, if he could or would not accept a life of blindness, Athos' deepest concern was that his friend would come to believe that his life was no longer worth living.

Closing his own eyes, he fervently hoped that the benevolent God in whom the younger man was so devoted, would show his mercy and return Aramis' sight.

**0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0-0**

The swordsman assisted Aramis from the wagon and bid farewell to Serge, agreeing to meet in the same spot in a few hours. With his friend grasping his elbow, Athos carefully led the younger man through the streets toward Sainte Chapelle.

"Do you know where we are?" Athos asked, wondering if travelling in the wagon had disoriented the younger man.

Aramis nodded. His frequent visits to Father Jean-Philippe at Sainte Chapelle and the occasional mistress or two, meant he was very familiar with the streets and stores on Ile de la Cite.

"I believe so," he said, thoughtfully. "I recognized the hollow, wooden sound of Pont Neuf as we crossed the river. We then turned east which, if I'm not mistaken, would place us on the Quai de l'Horloge."

"Go on," Athos said, his voice giving nothing away.

"When we left the wagon, there was a strong smell of smoked meats – perhaps Monsieur Dupris' charcuterie on the corner of Rue de Harlay?"

"And now?" Athos asked.

"Judging from the position of the sun we are continuing east and, based on the distinct ordour of camembert and d'Angelot, I would venture that we are close to Madame Fornier's fromagerie."

Athos was a man not easily impressed; a man who kept tight control of his emotions. Every expression, movement and utterance was carefully schooled. He took a deep breath, forcing oxygen into a chest that was about to burst with pride and relief as he realized that, should his blindness be permanent, Aramis was more than capable of adjusting to a life without sight. Of course, there was still a long way to go and many obstacles to face but the young man was a fighter and his courage, determination and the support of his brothers would see him through. Though Athos was not prone to acts of tenderness…he just couldn't help it. He pulled Aramis to him in a fierce hug, thumping one hand encouragingly on the younger man's back and lightly grabbing a fistful of dark brown curls.

The younger man was taken aback by the uncharacteristic gesture.

"Er…Athos?" he said. "What are you doing?"

"Call it a rare display of brotherly pride and affection," Athos replied, not in any hurry to let go.

Swallowing the lump that suddenly appeared in his throat, Aramis returned the hug.

"Thank you, mon frère," he whispered.

"Tell anyone about this and I'll leave you here to find your own way home," Athos told him.

Huffing a laugh, Aramis replied.

"My lips are sealed."

Gathering themselves, they continued walking eastward until Athos veered to the right several moments later.

"Boulevard du Palais," Aramis announced stepping more cautiously over the cobblestone surface.

Athos snorted.

"Now you're just showing off," he said dryly.

**0-0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0-0**

The translucent beauty of Sainte Chapelle's magnificent stained glass windows cast their serenity on all who gazed upon them. Though it wasn't the closest church to the garrison, Athos was not surprised that this was the one Aramis visited most often – it was truly breathtaking.

Athos led Aramis toward the front of the church as a frail, grey-haired priest entered from the sacristy.

"Bonjour, Mon Père," Athos said. "My friend and I are looking for Père Jean-Phillippe."

"I am Père Jean-Phillippe," the old priest replied.

"I believe you are acquainted with my friend, Aramis," the swordsman continued, gesturing to the younger man.

"Monsieur Aramis, you must forgive me. These old eyes did not recognize you from such a distance."

"An apology is not necessary, Mon Père," Aramis smiled. "I hope we have not disturbed your work."

"The people of this parish are my work, mon fils," Jean-Philippe replied. "Come, let me look at you."

As the Musketeers drew closer, the elderly priest's heart sank as he noted the way Athos led the younger man toward him.

"Mon fils, qu'est-ce qui vous est arrivé?" he asked, his voice coloured by his concern.

Aramis swallowed thickly and lowered his head.

"There was an accident at the garrison, Mon Père," Athos explained. "Aramis was blinded."

Jean-Philippe's hands made a hasty sign of the cross before he stepped forward to take Aramis' hands.

"Is the injury permanent?" he asked.

"That has not yet been determined," Athos replied.

"Tell me," Jean-Philippe said. "What can I do?"

"I have come seeking your counsel, Mon Père," Aramis said.

"Of course, mon fils, of course." Looking around the grandiose chapel, he indicated to a small alcove. "We will not be disturbed there."

Following the elderly priest across the chapel, Athos seated Aramis before turning to address Jean-Philippe.

"I have an errand to attend to and must take my leave," Athos said. "I will be back within the hour."

"We will be here when you return," Jean-Philippe replied.

Athos placed his hand on the nape of Aramis' neck, giving a gentle squeeze and receiving nod of understanding in return before turning on his heel and heading for the door. He had reached the far end of the chapel before he looked back. Although he knew Aramis was safe in the old priest's care, it was ridiculously difficult to leave the younger man behind.

Aramis sat with his head bowed, worrying the rosary beads he'd taken from his pocket. Jean-Philippe placed his warm, gnarled fingers over them to still them.

"How can I help you, mon fils?" he asked.

"Now that I am here, I am not sure where to start," Aramis smiled sadly.

"Why don't you start by telling me how you feel?"

Aramis licked his lips nervously, his sightless eyes seeking but not quite meeting those of the priest's.

"I feel…disbelief, like this is a terrible dream from which I will soon awaken. I am angry, frustrated and I am…perplexed."

"And you wish to know how God, in his infinite wisdom, could inflict such suffering upon you?"

Aramis nodded and bowed his head.

"I am reminded of the young man who sought refuge in this very chapel a few years ago," Jean-Philippe said. "A young man so tormented and lost; the only soldier to return from a routine training camp that ended in a massacre. He looked at me with eyes filled with such misery and despair that I genuinely feared he would never again put his trust in God. But the young man's faith was stronger than I imagined and he found his way back to the church and his regiment."

"I returned to the regiment after Savoy because I truly believed it was what God planned for me," Aramis said, carding shaking fingers through his hair. "I've worked hard to be the best soldier, the best Musketeer that I could be because I thought it was God's will. How can I continue to fulfill His plan for me when I can no longer see?"

"Aramis, do you remember John 13:7?" Jean-Philippe asked.

The young man closed his eyes on a sigh and nodded.

"Jesus answered and said unto him, "You do not realize now, what I am doing but you will understand later," he quoted.

The elderly priest chuckled.

"You know your bible better than many of the young priests we get from the seminary," he said. "Aramis, we do not know if it was God's plan for you to be a Musketeer forever…but perhaps God placed you in the darkness so you could help to spread his light."

Aramis pondered the old priest's word but he couldn't help the dark thought festering in the back of his mind.

"Mon Père, do you believe I am being punished?"

"For being a soldier?" Jean-Philippe asked.

Aramis shook his head.

"For not being a better man," he replied.

"We can all be better men, Aramis. We make mistakes, we repent and ask God for forgiveness and, in His mercy, He grants us absolution. In all the years I have known you, you have always believed that God is merciful. Now is not the time to question your beliefs, mon fils, now is the time to draw comfort from them."

There had been many times in Aramis' life where he'd sought God's forgiveness and received His grace. But there was one sin that he would never confess, even in the sanctity of the confessional. He had slept with the Queen and fathered the Dauphin - and he would never ask for forgiveness for that which he would never regret. It was a burden that weighed heavily on his soul and tested his faith.

The elderly priest place his hand on the crown of the young man's head.

"You have not asked of Amelie," he said.

Aramis lifted his head sharply.

"There is news?" the young man asked.

"A note arrived yesterday," Jean-Philippe replied. "She is settling into her new life...and she is happy. You did a very good thing."

"I did what anyone would."

"Regrettably, we both know that is not so," the priest said. Reaching into his pocket, Jean-Philippe retrieved an ornate, purple satin stole. He kissed it reverently before placing it around his neck and taking Aramis' hands in his. "Your young friend will soon return to collect you. Why don't we spend this time asking for God's guidance?"

"Thank you, Mon Père," Aramis whispered as he bowed his head and joined the elderly priest in prayer.

**0-0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0-0**

Athos and Aramis arrived at the meeting place earlier than expected and sat beneath a tree to wait for Serge. The younger man had been quiet since they'd left the chapel. The swordsman had hoped that visiting with the old priest would ease some of the worry from Aramis' mind but the younger man appeared even more troubled and lost in his thoughts. He was surprised when, several moments later, Aramis broke the silence between them.

"Why was Lemay sent to the garrison when I was hurt?" he asked.

"He is an exceptional physician," Athos replied.

"He is the King's  _personal_ physician," the marksman countered. "Why was he sent to treat a mere Musketeer?"

"The King believed the gesture would demonstrate his magnanimity."

"It was solely the King's decision?" he asked, skeptically.

"He may have received a little...prompting," Athos replied truthfully, wincing as Aramis' expression darkened.

"It was the Queen's idea for Lemay to treat me," he stated, his face flushing with embarrassment.

"She was concerned."

"I don't want her pity," Aramis replied bitterly.

Athos sighed audibly and swiped his hand over his bearded chin.

"I saw many emotions in Her Majesty's eyes, my brother, pity was not one of them."

Several moments passed as the younger man struggled to control his emotions, he removed his hat and raked his fingers through his curly hair.

"I have tried to keep my distance from the Dauphin and the Queen," he rasped. "I consoled myself with the thought that, at least, I could watch over them; protect them; see my son grow tall and strong. Now that singular pleasure has also been taken from me."

Aramis' breath hitched and he startled badly when a loud voice sounded from a few feet away.

"There you are!" Serge said, as he limped toward them. "The wagon's just down the road a ways. We should be getting 'ome."

"We'll be right there," Athos said, receiving a nod from the old man who made his way back to the wagon.

"Aramis, I-"

"I am tired, mon ami," Aramis interrupted. "Let's go home."

**0-0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope this story is holding your interest and not too angsty or drawn out.  
> Please take a minute to let me know. 
> 
> More to come soon - we've a bad guy to catch, d'Artagnan has his day with Aramis and our favourite marksman makes a decision on his future. (Gulp)
> 
> NOTES:-  
> "Jealousy is the jaundice of the soul." Quote borrowed from playwright, John Dryden.  
> A charcuterie a store where pork products, such as hams, sausages, and pâtés are smoked, salted, cured and sold.  
> A fromagerie is, of course, a cheese shop and d'Angelot is a very stinky cheese made in the 17th century.  
> Mon père - my father. An honorific used to address a priest in France and most other places around the world.  
> Mon fils - my son.  
> Mon fils, ce qui est arrivé à vous? - My son, what has happened to you?


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, please accept my sincere apologies for the long delay in updating this story. I have been undergoing chemotherapy and haven't been able to string two sentences together, let alone attempt to write. However, the fact that I left many of you wondering if the story would ever be completed has weighed heavily on my shoulders.  
> With light flickering at the end of this horrendous chemo journey, I have been able to complete a very abridged version of the story originally planned. Despite the shortened story, I "think" I've managed to collect all the threads but, if you find some plot holes, I hope you will forgive me and put it down to chemo brain. God willing, I should be able to wrap this up with another chapter after this one. Many thanks to Issai, for checking on me for time to time and thank you all for your patience and understanding. Bless. Gabby

 

**Beyond the Darkness**

**Chapter Nine**

Athos helped the younger man settle into the back of the wagon and, with a nod of his head, he signaled for Serge to begin their journey back to the garrison.

Aramis looked pale and Athos silently cursed that he had not noticed sooner. He had been so focused on his friend's accomplishments this morning – so thrilled and proud that Aramis had utilized his other senses to recognize his surroundings - he'd failed to comprehend just how much energy and concentration it required. The light sheen of sweat on the marksman's skin and the fine tremors running through his body spoke of the resurgence of a headache.

"Do you require the tincture?" Athos asked quietly.

Aramis closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with his long fingers.

"No."

"Aramis," Athos said, gentle exasperation colouring his tone.

"Your concern warms me, my friend, but I assure you I will be fine after some rest," the marksman replied.

Athos winced at the words. In all the years he'd known the younger man, he'd rarely heard him admit to fatigue – even when he was so obviously exhausted he could barely keep his feet. The swordsman shifted his position until he was seated next to Aramis; touching shoulders with the younger man to support some of his weight.

"Then sleep," Athos told him. "I will wake you when we arrive at the garrison."

The lack of protestations raised Athos' concern several more notches as Aramis immediately closed his eyes. The wagon continued down the rutted streets and, despite its jolting movements, Athos felt the marksman relax, his head lolling onto the older man's shoulder as he gave in to exhaustion and allowed sleep to take him.

Athos exhaled with exaggerated force and tentatively draped his arm around the younger man. There was something about Aramis that brought out both ends of his emotional spectrum. His calmness and dependability in a crisis had saved their hides more times than he cared to think about and his sharp wit often breeched the swordsman's stoic façade and coaxed the smile Athos rarely showed. But Aramis' impetuousness and borderline insubordination could make Athos want to strangle him with his bare hands.

Athos' knowledge of the younger man's liaison with the queen had forced him to choose between breaking his vow to his sovereign or watching Aramis summarily put to death for his treachery. He tightened his grip protectively around his sleeping friend and rested his chin on the dark curls. Although he could neither condone nor excuse the act of perfidy toward the King…he simply could not bear to lose another brother.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

When they'd returned to the garrison, Aramis had been strangely compliant as he allowed Athos to lead him to his quarters, remove his coat and boots and lower him into his bunk. By the time Athos had poured a measure of tincture, the marksman had been sound asleep so he'd left the medicine on the bedside table and quietly left the room. Twice subsequently, Athos had checked on his friend, equally pleased and concerned that the younger man appeared to be sleeping.

Now, several hours later, Athos sat alone at a table outside of the refectory, his blue eyes fixed on the closed door of Aramis' quarters across the compound. Judging by the lengthening shadows creeping resolutely across the ground, he estimated it was late afternoon. He reached for the nearby bottle of wine and was surprised to find he'd imbibed very little; obviously his thoughts were elsewhere this evening. With a sigh that came from his boots, he topped up his glass and drank it down in two swallows.

His attention was immediately drawn to the gate as Porthos and d'Artagnan reined in their horses before entrusting their care to the new, overly eager stable boy. Turning on their heels, the Musketeers headed toward Aramis' quarters, keen to see their friend. They changed direction abruptly as Athos called to them and gestured for them to join him at the table.

"Where is he?" Porthos asked, his brow creasing in concern. "He alright?"

"He's resting," Athos replied.

Nodding his acceptance, the larger man reached for the bottle of wine and poured himself and d'Artagnan a drink.

"How'd it go, then?" he asked.

"All in all, Aramis coped remarkably well," Athos said. His expression remained as unreadable as ever but his eyes shone with pride. "His orientation and awareness were quite…extraordinary."

Porthos grinned from ear-to-ear, nudging d'Artagnan in the ribs with his elbow.

"Whad I tell ya?" he asked the younger man. "Mis may get knocked down but 'e always gets back up."

D'Artagnan smiled in return, swept up in the larger man's joy and relief but his smile faded when he noted the look of concern on the swordsman's face.

"Then why do you look like somebody drank the last of your private wine reserve?" d'Artagnan asked. "Is there something you're not telling us?"

Athos carded his fingers through his hair and sighed audibly.

"Whilst Aramis did admirably today, the effort of doing so took its toll."

"He got one of those 'eadaches again, didn't 'e?" Porthos asked, watching as Athos nodded his head.

"He was fatigued and in obvious pain by the time we returned to the garrison."

"Did he take the tincture?" d'Artagnan asked.

"He refused it until we got back to the garrison, then promptly fell asleep without it. That was several hours ago."

Porthos rose to his feet and took several steps in the direction of Aramis' quarters before Athos voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Porthos, let him be. He needs rest…and there is something else we must discuss."

"You went to the morgue to check on Antoine," d'Artagnan stated and Athos nodded again.

"It has been several days since the boy's death and Antoine's uncle has made no arrangements for his burial. By law, the mortician can release the body to non-family members in the morning. As per Treville's request, I have instructed him to bring the boy here to be buried in the garrison graveyard."

"Aramis will like that," Porthos said quietly.

"Why would Benoit object so vehemently against allowing us to see to Antoine's burial and then fail to take care of it himself?" d'Artagnan postured. "It doesn't make sense."

"D'Artagnan's right," Treville said, walking down the stairs from his office and motioning for the Musketeers to remain seated. "And why would he accuse Aramis of murdering his nephew and threaten to petition the King for a trial but take the matter no further?"

"You're suggesting that an inquiry into his nephew's death may reveal more than Benoit wishes to divulge," Athos stated, raising an eyebrow inquisitively.

"It's certainly not difficult to believe that Benoit could manipulate Antoine into doing something completely out of character," d'Artagnan agreed. "The lad was slow and easily intimidated."

"But why Aramis?" Porthos asked. "He was the best friend that boy 'ad."

"Which may also explain why the boy chose to take his own life rather than live with the guilt of his actions," Athos replied calmly.

"He was conflicted," the Gascon said. "Torn between doing his uncle's bidding and his friendship with Aramis."

"It makes sense," Porthos conceded. "But it still don't explain why Benoit would wanna hurt Aramis."

"That is a question we need to ask Aramis," Treville said. "When he awakens, bring him to my office. I intend to get to the-"

"Something's wrong," d'Artagnan interrupted. His dark eyes reflected deep concern as he glanced over the shoulders of his friends. "Aramis?"

Following d'Artagnan's gaze, the men turned to see Aramis staggering from his quarters. Barefoot and wearing only his shirt and pants, he wandered unseeing into the compound with his right arm outstretched before him and the heel of his left hand pressed firmly into his temple to curb the agonizing pain shooting through his head.

Porthos was on his feet and running before he'd realized he left the table. Athos, d'Artagnan and Treville were on his heels as they rushed the short distance to Aramis' side, reaching for him just as he collapsed to his knees. Porthos crouched in front of his ailing friend; his strong arms stopping the younger man from pitching forward into the dirt. Placing his hand on Aramis' shoulder, Athos could feel the tremors wracking the marksman's body as he fought to catch his breath.

"Aramis, you must calm your breathing," Athos stated more calmly than even he expected. "Deep breaths, slow and easy."

Aramis' sightless eyes were filled with pain as he searched the darkness for his friends. Sweat had plastered his dark hair to his forehead.

"We're right 'ere with you, 'Mis," Porthos said. "Tell us what's wrong."

"Lemay," Aramis rasped. "Get Lemay."

Without a word, d'Artagnan sprinted for the stables. Dispensing with the need of a saddle, he fitted the bridle to his horse, mounted quickly and cantered to the gate before urging his horse into a gallop and riding for the palace.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

"Easy, Mis," Porthos said softly as he pushed the damp curls from Aramis' sweaty face. "Help's comin'."

After d'Artagnan's departure for the palace, Athos, Porthos and Treville had helped the younger man back to his quarters and administered a dose of tincture. While the medication usually worked quickly - rendering the marksman insensible and chasing away the headaches – several long moments later, the Musketeers watched helplessly as Aramis gritted his teeth and tried to breathe through the pain.

"Why isn't it workin'?" Porthos growled softly.

"The pain is far greater this time," Athos acknowledged, his blue eyes dark with concern. "He is in need of a stronger pain relief."

"Can't we just give 'im another dose of tincture?"

Athos shook his head. Since Aramis was robbed of his sight, he had suffered from frequent headaches but this was by far the worst of them and his friends were growing more and more frustrated in their inability to help him.

"Not until Lemay has seen him."

The door opened suddenly and they looked expectantly toward it, surprised when Treville escorted the harried young woman into the room.

"Constance?" Porthos said in surprise.

"How is he?" she replied, removing her hooded cloak and folding it over the back of a nearby chair.

"The tincture has had little effect," Athos told her. "We were expecting Doctor Lemay."

"The king has a head cold. He has forbidden Lemay to leave the palace until he is completely recovered," Constance told them with a roll of her eyes. "Honestly, the way he's carrying on, you'd think he'd contracted the black plague."

Taking a quick look at Aramis, she crossed the room to the large jug and basin and soaked more cloths before gently wringing the cool water from them.

"Lemay has sent d'Artagnan to Thierry at the blind school," she continued. "He has a tonic that should help Aramis."

"Shouldn't you be attending the Queen?" Treville asked.

"Who do you think sent me here?" Constance said, sharing a fleeting glance with Athos. "You know how much Her Majesty cares for her Musketeers."

She turned her attention to Aramis, sitting on the side of his bed and resting her hand on his cheek.

"You and I have got to stop meeting like this," she chided gently. "All these rendezvous with a handsome philanderer will besmirch my reputation."

"Or enhance it," Aramis rasped. "Depending on your viewpoint."

His weak smile quickly transformed to a wince as he gritted his teeth through another sharp pain.

"That remark would've earned you another slap if you weren't feeling so poorly," she told him, feigning indigence.

Grasping her hand, he squeezed her fingers in a silent apology.

"And don't think you can charm your way back into my good books," Constance told him, her words softened by the smile in her voice.

She wiped a cool cloth over his sweaty face and neck, watching him sag in temporary relief of the pain.

"Just close your eyes and try to relax. D'Artagnan will be here with the medicine before you know it."

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Seated by the window in Aramis' room, Athos found himself staring at the garrison gate as if, by sheer will alone, he could make d'Artagnan and Thierry appear. Porthos and Constance sat by their friend's side, speaking softly in a futile attempt to distract Aramis from the pain as the marksman continued to doze fitfully, his legs moving restlessly beneath a light blanket.

"They're here," Athos announced flatly as the sound of returning horses echoed through the compound.

He opened the door as, breathless and dust-covered, d'Artagnan and Thierry quickly dismounted and walked into the room.

"How is he?" d'Artagnan asked anxiously.

"Not good," Porthos replied. "You have the tonic?"

"We do," Thierry replied, wincing in sympathy at the sight of the ailing man. "How long has he been like this?"

"Two, maybe three hours," Porthos replied.

Nodding, Thierry prepared a measure of tonic.

"Lift his head for me," he asked the larger man who eased his friend's head up with a gentleness that belied his size.

"Aramis, I need you to drink this," Thierry said. "It is bitter to taste but you must swallow it all. It will help ease your pain."

Thierry held a cup to Aramis' lips and watched as he drank the liquid and grimaced at the vile taste.

"You've seen this before," Athos stated.

"Too many times, I'm afraid," Thierry replied. "It is an affliction suffered by some unsighted people - particularly those like Aramis whose blindness was caused by a head injury. We have four or five people at the school who endure these episodes two or three times a month. The pain can be brutal but, as you can see, the tonic works quickly."

The lines of pain that had etched deeply around the marksman's mouth and forehead had begun to smooth and disappear as the tonic was quickly absorbed into Aramis' bloodstream. Leaning heavily against Porthos, his head lolled onto the older man's shoulder and dark curls fell across his face. Constance tucked his hair back behind his ear, smiling at the glazed eyes and languid grin that told her Aramis was finally feeling no pain.

Thierry leaned forward and tapped Aramis' cheek to get his attention.

"Aramis, did you see anything?" he asked, attracting startled looks from everyone in the room. "During the headaches, did you see anything?"

To their surprise, the marksman nodded sleepily.

"Flashes," he slurred, fighting valiantly against sleep. "Flashes of light and colour."

Porthos opened his mouth to speak but Thierry raised his hand to cut him off.

"What about now?" he asked, tapping Aramis' face again when there was no response. "Aramis, what about now? What can you see?"

"Darkness," Aramis whispered. "Only darkness."

The marksman's eyes grew heavier until they finally closed and Aramis tumbled willingly into a state of pain-free oblivion.

Athos and Porthos laid their friend back onto the bed as Constance drew the blanket up to the sleeping man's chest.

"How long will he sleep?" d'Artagnan asked.

"He should sleep for about twelve hours," Thierry replied.

"And when he awakes?" d'Artagnan asked.

"These headaches can be brutal but they generally last just a few hours. He may feel slightly nauseous but he will be fine."

"Until the next time," Porthos said.

Athos frowned and turned in Thierry's direction.

"Aramis never mentioned he had seen anything," he said. "How did you know?"

"As I said, Monsieur Athos, this is not an uncommon affliction," Thierry replied.

"Does this mean he's regaining 'is sight?" Porthos asked hopefully.

"I'm afraid I do not have a definitive answer. There have been recorded cases of people with similar injuries seeing flashes of light during these headaches. For some, their sight returned…sadly, others see the flashes for many years, yet, they remain sightless."

Thierry looked at the tired faces around him and could feel the depth of their concern.

"I know how difficult it is to see someone you care for in such pain," he said looking back at the sleeping man. "Aramis is fortunate indeed to have such friends."

"Why do I feel there's a 'but' coming on," Porthos said suspiciously and Thierry gave a wry smile.

"You believe Aramis would be better off at your blind school?" Athos said.

"Yes, Monsieur, I believe it is the only way. He will have any medical care he needs and we can give him the skills he needs to adapt to a life of blindness. In fact, the children in our community could use someone with Aramis' knowledge of the scriptures and the great poets and playwrights. He would be a great asset to us."

"Aramis is fine right where 'e is," Porthos said threatening.

"Porthos," Athos warned.

"I understand," Thierry said as he gathered his things ready to leave. "These last few days have taken their toll on all of you. But whether you are ready to admit it or not, there will soon came a day when Captain Treville can no longer spare you from your duties as Musketeers. Where will that leave Aramis?"

"We would never abandon our brother," d'Artagnan answered standing resolutely by Porthos' side.

"Of course not," Thierry said. "But when that time comes, your decision must be based not on what is best for you, monsieur, but what is best for Amaris."

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0oo0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Porthos rolled his shoulders to ease the tension that was pulling painfully at his muscles and forced himself to sit straighter to ease his discomfort. A quick look to his left found d'Artagnan fidgeting anxiously in his seat; his eyes dark with exhaustion and worry. Glancing to his right, Porthos noticed Athos, leaning against the wall in an uncustomary slouch; his eyes never leaving their fourth as he slept on.

The frightening intensity of Aramis' headache had caught them all off guard and although the potency of the tonic Thierry had administered to their ailing friend, had relieved his pain and rendered him insensate, they each took their turn watching over him during the night. At first light, they had gathered by his bedside waiting for him to wake. That was several hours ago and the sun was now climbing high in the sky.

Treville had called by earlier to check the marksman's condition and had relieved Athos and Porthos from their scheduled guard duty at the palace. Despite the captain's suspicions regarding Laurent Benoit's involvement in the attack on his marksman, he had extended an invitation for him to attend the small funeral service for Antoine later this morning. Treville was highly doubtful Benoit would accept.

If it had been up to Porthos, he would extend no such courtesy to the man who had accused Aramis of murder and left his own nephew's body unattended at the coroner's office for days. But his gut told him there was more to this story than they knew and they were keen for Aramis to wake so they could further investigate any possible link between the marksman and Laurent Benoit that may have led to the attempt on their friend's life.

Porthos cast his mind back to the previous night. While the Musketeers had been shocked and greatly concerned by the ferocity of Aramis' pain, Thierry had assured them that is was not uncommon among the visually impaired. The intense pain could be the start of Aramis' recovery or, God forbid, the first of many such headaches that would plague their friend for many years. The large man was drawn from his musings by d'Artagnan's voice.

"He's waking," the younger man said.

The three men leaned forward in unison as Aramis' brow furrowed and his head moved slowly from side to side. Collectively, they held their breath as the marksman tentatively opened his eyes.

"Is it morning?" he rasped, certain that at least one of his brothers was by his side.

The crushing disappointment of Aramis' continuing blindness was felt deeply by his friends. D'Artagnan dropped his head into his hands; Porthos tightened his fists until his knuckles were in danger of popping, while the pain in Athos' eyes revealed the heartache the swordsman was rarely able to voice.

Athos reached for a pitcher of water and poured a cup for Aramis. Taking a seat by his side, he held the cup to his friend's lips and allowed him to slake his thirst.

"It is not yet midday," he replied flatly. "How do you feel?"

Aramis paused; performing a silent inventory of his body. His limbs felt heavy and his clarity of mind still slightly impaired by the lingering effects of the strong tonic. Recognizing the comfort of his own bed, he laid completely still, allowing the sounds and smells around him to filter through to his sluggish brain.

Outside, the garrison was quiet, save for the occasional muted voice and the distant sound of steel on steel as a small group of Treville's latest recruits honed their skills and swordsmanship at the far end of the compound. The barely audible hiss of molten steel being lowered into water, followed by the pounding of metal on metal told him that Gerard the blacksmith had arrived for his fortnightly visit to the garrison and was hard at work in the stables.

A gentle breeze carried the familiar aroma of stew from the refectory while the warmth streaming through the window of his quarters and onto his blanketed legs confirmed Athos' statement that the morning sun had not yet reached its peak in the sky.

"Aramis?" Athos prompted when the silence grew worrying. "How are you feeling?"

The marksman's senses successfully coaxed his reluctant memories out of hibernation. He recalled the debilitating pain of the previous day's headache and slumped in relief realizing that he was pain-free.

"Like I've slept for far too long," Aramis replied, rubbing his fingers along his furrowed brow and nodding his thanks as Athos refilled the cup and placed it into his hand. Though the tonic had forced sleep upon him, the dark smudges under Aramis' eyes laid testament to the fact that very little of it had been beneficial.

"Are you still in pain?" d'Artagnan asked, worry evident in his voice.

Aramis smiled wearily in the younger man's general direction.

"No, my friend, the pain has gone."

"You 'ad us worried," Porthos added. "You didn't so much as twitch all night. We coulda fired a cannon in 'ere and you wouldn't 'ave stirred."

"Thierry's tonic obviously packs quite a punch," Aramis replied before frowning. "But if memory serves, you and Athos were assigned to the palace this morning."

"Treville altered the assignment," Athos told him.

"Not on my account," Aramis protested indignantly as he started to rise.

"Relax, will ya," Porthos said, placing his large hand on Aramis' shoulder and holding the marksman in place. "The cap'n asked us to look into another matter, that's all."

"What matter?" Aramis asked warily, the feeling in the pit of his stomach warning him that he wasn't going to like the reply.

The silence between them grew thick as Aramis waited impatiently for a reply.

"Well?" He asked.

D'Artagnan and Porthos looked expectantly at Athos who reluctantly broke the silence.

"You should know that the captain has arranged for Antoine to be buried in the garrison cemetery today," he said.

"He has not yet been laid to rest?" Aramis asked, looking alarmed.

"There was a…misunderstanding between the coroner's office and Antoine's uncle," d'Artagnan offered. "But it has since been resolved and the service will be at noon."

Aramis nodded his head as he attempted to leave his bed.

"I would like to attend," he said, looking perturbed as Porthos' hand pinned him once again.

"There's more," Porthos said. "How well do you know Antoine's uncle?"

Aramis narrowed his eyes at the strange line of questioning.

"Something has happened," he said. "What are you not telling me?"

Once again, Porthos and d'Artagnan turned to Athos who sighed audibly before continuing.

"Antoine's uncle has accused you of murdering his nephew. He believes that, even without sight, you possess the skill to kill the lad and he has cited his intention to petition the King and have you arrested for murder."

Aramis paled and leaned back against the pillows.

"I don't understand," he said. "I have never met this man."

"Then you have nothing to fear," Athos told him. "Benoit's accusations are unfounded and we will-"

The marksman's eyes opened wide.

"Benoit?" Aramis whispered. "Laurent Benoit is Antoine's uncle?"

"You know him?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Yes," the marksman replied. "But, on my honour, I had no idea he was Antoine's uncle."

"We believe you," Porthos said taking a seat by the bed. "But I think you better start from the beginning, yeah? How did you meet Laurent Benoit."

Aramis took a moment to compose himself before replying.

"Several weeks ago, I was on my way to attend mass when I came across a young woman on the street. She had been badly beaten - her name was Amelie Benoit."

"Laurent Benoit's daughter," d'Artagnan guessed, receiving a nod of confirmation from Aramis.

"Go on," Athos said.

"She told me her father had arranged for her to marry a well to do wine merchant in exchange for a sizeable payment."

"He agreed to sell his own daughter?" d'Artagnan exclaimed.

"Distasteful," Athos said. "But not illegal."

"Perhaps, but Amelie loved another. A young man named, Henri, whom she planned to marry. When she told her father of her plans, he locked her in her room without food or water for three days. When she finally managed to free herself, she went in search of Henri and was told of his sudden death. He had been working under a wagon when it shifted from its mountings and crushed him beneath."

"And Amelie thought 'er father 'ad somethin' to do wiv that?" Porthos asked.

Aramis nodded.

"As do I," he said. "But knowing it and proving it are two entirely different things."

"What happened to Amelie?" D'Artagnan asked.

"She confronted her father. Told him she was carrying Henri's child and would never agree to marry the wine merchant. Benoit beat her shamelessly and she lost the child. When she was able, she packed a few belongings and that's when I found her. I took her to Pere Jean-Philipe and he found her sanctuary in a nearby convent."

Athos sighed. Although the circumstances were different, there were several parallels between Amelie and Aramis' first love, Isabel. Understanding the painful memories this would have invoked, Athos reached across to squeeze the nape of his friend's neck in silent support.

"And what of Benoit?" he asked.

"I paid Monsieur Benoit a visit," Aramis said. "Told him that Amelie had gone away and would not be returning. He drew his gauche and I disarmed him…with, perhaps, a little more force than was entirely necessary. I told him that if he ever raised his hand to another woman, I would return and do likewise to him. I have neither seen nor heard from him since that day."

"Where were you when you first met Amelie?" Athos asked.

"I told you. I was going to mass and saw her on the street."

"Yes, but where precisely?"

"She was standing by the alleyway near Monsieur la Salle's épicerie."

"That's just outside the garrison gate," d'Artagnan said. "Perhaps she had come to seek assistance from Antoine?"

"As his cousin, she, of all people, would have known that Benoit could force Antoine to reveal her whereabouts," Athos replied. "This was not a meeting of happenstance; Amelie was waiting for you."

"Why me?" Aramis asked.

"Because Antoine liked and respected you," Porthos said. "He would've told 'is cousin how you 'elped him and Amelie hoped you'd 'elp her, too."

"She didn't say a word about Antoine," Aramis said. "I didn't even know they were family."

"Perhaps she was protecting him," d'Artagnan ventured. "As Athos said, the less Antoine knew, the less Benoit could learn from him."

"And now he's dead…"

"Oy, that wasn't your fault," Porthos told him, watching the slump of the marksman's shoulders. "You did what you could to 'elp both Antoine and Amelie."

A quiet knock on the door preceded Treville's entrance. He nodded approvingly when he saw the marksman awake and alert.

"Good, you're all here," he said. "The preacher has arrived and Antoine's service will begin shortly."

"Will Benoit be attending?" d'Artagnan asked.

"As I suspected, he failed to respond to my invitation. The service will go ahead as scheduled."

"Captain," Athos said before the older man could leave the room. "We have a new lead concerning Benoit and the attack on Aramis' life. With your permission, Porthos and I wish to look into it."

"Of course," Treville said. "Keep me apprised."

"You're not staying for the service?" Aramis asked.

"There will be time to pay our respects later," he replied. "In the meantime, we have some questions for Laurent Benoit."

"Constance has offered to prepare some refreshments for after the service," d'Artagnan said. "If Aramis feels up to it, he and I will meet you there."

Aramis nodded his head and raised his arm for Porthos to help him to his feet. He held on to the older man's forearm until the slight dizziness passed.

"I am fine," the marksman insisted.

"Course you are," Porthos smirked knowingly. "Just don't go eating all those little éclairs Constance makes before I get there."

"I make no such promises," Aramis said, giving his friend a half smile.

Porthos caught d'Artagnan's eye and nodded his head toward the door, signalling for d'Artagnan to follow.

"I'll be outside," the Gascon told Aramis. "Call if you need me."

Closing the door behind him, d'Artagnan turned to see the worried faces of Porthos and Athos.

"We'll be fine," he said, preempting their concerns.

"Remember Thierry's instructions," Athos told him. "Allow Aramis to take your left arm above the elbow and walk at a slightly slower pace."

"Don't forget to tell 'im about any steps, up or down, or anything he could trip over, yeah?" Porthos added.

"Take the tonic with you," Athos said. "If he looks like he's in pain but tells you he isn't, he's lying. Give it to him anyway."

"And don't let 'im get lost in his 'ead," Porthos instructed. "Distract 'im. Keep 'im talking."

D'Artagnan raised his hands in supplication.

"You realise you sound like a pair of old hens," the younger man grinned. "We'll be fine. As soon as the service is over, I'll take Aramis to Constance's house and we'll meet you there."

Nodding their agreement, Porthos and Athos headed for the stable, pausing to look back one last time.

"You be careful," Porthos said.

"You, too."

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

The preacher used a cloth to wipe the dirt from his hands and leaned in to say a few words to Aramis who remained on his knees by the newly formed mound. From his position, the Gascon could not hear what was said but Aramis nodded his head and allowed the preacher to help him to his feet and lead him back to d'Artagnan's side where the younger man placed a protective arm around his shoulders.

The service had been a simple affair without the ceremony of a military funeral. With most of the regiment dispersed to attend their various assignments and duties, only a handful of men had attended. Still, Aramis took some comfort in knowing that Antoine was now at peace. The preacher shook hands with d'Artagnan and Aramis before he and Treville left the two younger men alone.

"Are you alright?" D'Artagnan asked.

Aramis nodded.

"It didn't have to end like this," he said. "If he'd spoken to me, I could have helped him…I  _would_  have helped him."

"You  _did_  help him," d'Artagnan replied. "You got him a job in the garrison stables and always looked out for him. You cannot blame yourself if Antoine lacked the strength to refuse to his uncle. They robbed you of your sight and nearly killed you."

"Benoit manipulated him," Aramis said. "But when Antoine had the opportunity to take my life, he did not."

"Benoit will pay…Athos and Porthos will see to it," d'Artagnan told him as he moved into position and gently nudged Aramis with his left arm. "In the meantime, if we leave now, we may just have enough time to eat all the eclairs before Porthos arrives."

Aramis huffed a laugh and grasped the younger man's arm above the elbow.

"Lead on, my friend," he replied.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Athos glanced around the small lodging, taking in the mess and wrinkling his nose at the stench of spoiled food and spilled alcohol. They had arrived at Benoit's home to find the door ajar and had drawn their pistols before announcing their presence. They entered to find no one home; the floor, unswept and dusty, was littered with empty liquor bottles while, despite the cool weather, the fireplace had not been lit for several days. The invitation from Treville was ripped into pieces that lay scattered on the floor.

Porthos returned from questioning the neighbours - the look on his face told Athos all he needed to know.

"Neighbours said Benoit was 'ere this mornin' but left a few hours ago," the larger man said, his top lip curling slightly in frustration. "They said 'e's probably on a bender somewhere. He likes to drink down at the Wild Boar."

"Perhaps we will find him there," Athos said as he pulled the front door closed behind him and led the way toward the inn.

"He ain't been 'ere for at least a week," the barkeeper told them as he continued to wipe down the bar.

"Are you sure?" Porthos asked.

"Positive," the man said. "Last time I saw 'im, he was with that young nephew of 'is. I heard the boy died a few days back. Nice lad, he was. Slow-witted but 'e was a good boy - you know, respectful and all – he didn't deserve to be treated like Benoit treated 'im."

"Just how did Benoit treat the boy?" Athos asked.

The barkeeper stopped what he was doing and looked at the Musketeers before him.

"Like 'e wasn't worth nothin'," the man said with obvious distaste. "More 'n once I 'eard 'im tell the boy that life would be a lot easier if he 'ad died wiv his parents. When the boy got a job at the garrison wiv your lot, 'e was proud as punch and couldn't wait to tell 'is uncle. Benoit told him 'e didn't have brains enough to last the week."

Both Musketeers felt the rush of anger surge through their veins.

"Any idea where we can find 'im?" Porthos asked.

"Last I 'eard he was lookin' for work down the docks," the barkeep said. "But 'e don't get much work what with that gammy leg of 'is."

Flicking a coin on the bar for the man's trouble, Porthos turned his head to look at Athos.

"Now what?" He said. "If he's working the docks, it'll be like searching for a needle in a haystack."

"We'll check with the Harbour Master first," Athos replied. "They usually have a register of longshoremen or crew members regularly looking for work."

"An' if we don't find him?"

"Then we will continue our search each day until we do."

As they left the inn, Porthos' thoughts were of Antoine and his struggle to win the respect and affection of his heartless uncle. Desperate to please Benoit, the young man's world would have turned on its head when he found himself ordered to kill Aramis - the only man who had ever shown him any kindness and friendship. It had been a close thing but when presented with the perfect opportunity to finish the job, Antoine had spared Aramis' life and Porthos' gratitude and relief were palpable. As they approached the docks, Porthos made a silent vow to see justice served – for Aramis and for Antoine.

**-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

"Whoa," d'Artagnan exclaimed, grabbing Aramis by the shoulders and saving him from a painful fall. "Are you alright? Did you not hear me tell you there was a step down?"

"I'm sorry," Aramis replied, "I'm a little…distracted."

D'Artagnan scrutinized his friend's face, looking for any signs of illness or distress and was relieved not to find any.

"It is I who should apologise," the young man said. "I should have known better than to lead you through the crowded marketplace."

"It is the quickest way to Madame Bonacieux's, is it not?" Aramis asked.

"Yes, but-"

"Then your apology is unnecessary," the marksman assured him. "Come, let's not keep Constance waiting."

Once again, d'Artagnan offered his arm to his friend who grasped it just above the elbow and squeezed it reassuringly. As they continued to walk through the busy marketplace, Aramis flinched as various spruikers shouted their sales pitches, unintentionally startling the blind man. D'Artagnan spoke in a calm, reassuring voice, warning Aramis of any steps and trying to protect him from the pushing and shoving of the milling crowd.

The marksman took a few deep breaths and tried to concentrate on the younger man's voice but, unlike the previous day's peaceful sojourn through the streets of the Ile de la Cite, the sounds and smells of the busy market blended into one overpowering and frightening cacophony. Aramis tightened his grip on the Gascon's guiding arm; his short sharp breaths a telltale sign of his increasing anxiety.

D'Artagnan urgently searched for a quiet place for Aramis to regain his composure. Noticing a small alcove leading off the main square, he shepherded his unsighted friend into the quiet recess and held him securely against the wall as the marksman's knees threatened to give out.

"Breathe, Aramis," d'Artagnan encouraged. "Just breathe."

The young Gascon was so focussed on keeping his friend safe, he hadn't noticed the man following them since they left the garrison. He was so intent on easing his friend's anxiety that he didn't see the man slip behind the empty crates nearby or hear the familiar sound of a paper-wrapped lead ball being forced down the barrel of a pistol by a small ramrod. He didn't even hear the chilling sound of the pistol being fully cocked, ready to fire…but Aramis did.

With all the strength he could manage, the marksman dived toward d'Artagnan, thrusting both of his hands forcefully into the younger man's chest and knocking him off his feet as the pistol fired. Aramis hissed as the projectile seared through his bicep and continued on its way. Both Musketeers hit the ground with a force that knocked the breath out of them, d'Artagnan's head hitting the ground with a sickening crack. Aramis barely retained his composure as he felt the younger man's body go completely limp.

The marksman's heart pounded painfully against his sternum. Had d'Artagnan been hit? Was his young brother bleeding out or, God forbid, already dead? His left hand searched d'Artagnan's chest and when he felt the strong, regular beat of the Gascon's heart, he almost cried out in relief. But their assailant was still close by and Aramis covered d'Artagnan's body with his own, protecting him from further harm.

Pandemonium had erupted in the marketplace – the gunshot had sent people running for cover in all directions; screaming and shouting excitedly. Carefully lifting the pistol from the younger man's weapons belt, Aramis forced himself to concentrate on the sounds around him. Once again, he heard the soft scraping of metal on metal and knew their assailant was reloading for another shot.

The marksman laid as still as he could, ignoring the pain in his right bicep and straining to hear over the thunderous sound of his own rapidly beating heart…and then he heard it. The approaching footsteps of his assailant - crunching the dirt and gravel beneath his boots - had wordlessly revealed his position.

Aramis rolled, cocking the pistol and firing in one fluid motion. The shout of pain told him that his aim had been true – the man had been injured but had not fallen and his laborious, unsteady steps drew nearer. Out of ammunition and options, Aramis scrambled back to where d'Artagnan still lay injured and unconscious. If he were to die here, his last conscious act would be protecting his brother.

He heard the gasping, wheezing breaths of their attacker and the marksman's blood ran cold as the man cocked his pistol. Aramis lifted his chin defiantly but flinched violently as the pistol fired and the heat of the ball travelled passed his head and into the brick wall behind him. The man gave a final gurgling moan before his body gave out and he collapsed to the ground never to move again.

Aramis' chest heaved with shock and pain. He'd been in more life and death struggles than he could count but never before had he been unable to use his eyes. Every vestige of adrenalin and energy had drained from his system. He clutched at d'Artagnan, frantically searching for injuries and shuddering in relief when he found no sign of bleeding.

The crowd that had previously fled at the sound of gunshots, now grew curious and drew closer to the alcove where the three men lay sprawled on the ground. A heavy hand grasped Aramis' shoulder.

"Easy, lad," the old man said. "We've sent for a doctor."

Nodding his thanks, Aramis held d'Artagnan tightly against his chest as if he was the only anchor in an ocean of turmoil.

TBC...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although the story has been altered considerably from the original plan, I hope you still enjoyed that chapter. Please feel free to let me know your thoughts. Gabby


	10. Chapter 10

Athos and Porthos sat wearily in their saddles as they rode slowly toward the Bonacieux home. Shoulder to shoulder, they travelled in silence, save for the hypnotic sound of their horses’ heavy hooves on the cobblestone streets. Their investigations into the whereabouts of Laurent Benoit had fallen short of their expectations and the man was still at large. The logs at the Harbour Master’s office had revealed that Benoit had been banned from working the docks two weeks prior when he drew a knife on his foreman after a minor pay dispute. The Musketeers had then spent several hours combing the docks and speaking to anyone acquainted with Benoit but they either had no idea where the man was or no inclination to get involved.

Athos chanced a quick sideways glance at his friend. Porthos had been uncharacteristically quiet since leaving the docks but the frustration rolled from him in waves. The larger man’s jaw was so tightly clenched that Athos was sure he could hear his teeth grinding together. The swordsman knew this was usually a prelude to violence.

“We will continue our search tomorrow,” the older man said. “Benoit is destitute and a drunkard, he will not evade us for long.”

Receiving no reply, the swordsman continued.

“I believe it would be prudent if d’Artagnan accompanied me tomorrow.”

His words had the desired effect and snapped the larger man from his thoughts.

“What? Why?” Porthos asked.

“One brother in trouble is more than enough. I am not inclined to explain to Aramis that his best friend has been dragged to the Châtelet in chains and charged with Laurent Benoit’s murder.”

Porthos glared at the older man before giving a shake of his head.

“I aint going to kill ‘im,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong, he deserves it for what he’s done to Aramis and his own family...but killin’s too good for ‘im.”

“Then if you are not planning Benoit’s grisly demise what, may I ask, has you so preoccupied?”

“I’m worried ‘bout Aramis…those ‘headaches of ‘is are getting worse.”

“Not to mention more frequent,” Athos agreed with a nod.

“You think Thierry’s right?” Porthos asked. “You think this means ‘is sight’s comin’ back?”

If Athos recalled correctly, Thierry had also mentioned the possibility that Aramis could suffer from these headaches forever while not regaining his sight. However, he was not about to rob the larger man of his optimism. 

“We can but hope, my friend,” Athos replied. “However, there is one thing of which I am certain.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Sighted or unsighted, Aramis remains Aramis,” Athos told him. “Should we delay our arrival further, I fervently believe that our brother, without compunction, will devour all of those eclairs you so enjoy.”

Porthos’ head turned sharply in Athos’ direction as he stared, open-mouthed at the swordsman.

“Nah…he wouldn’t dare,” the larger man said.

Athos cocked an eyebrow in reply.

“You’re right,” Porthos said, “He would.”

Taking up his reins, Porthos pressed his horse into a canter and rode purposefully for Constance’s home with Athos following behind at a more sedate pace and with the hint of a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth.

As he rounded the corner, Athos was not surprised to see Porthos’ tall bay tethered outside the Bonacieux home. He was, however, quite surprised to see Porthos standing by the front door with a deep scowl etched into his face.

“There’s no one ‘ere,” the larger man said. “You sure we was meetin’ ‘em ‘ere?”

“Quite sure,” Athos replied, climbing down from his horse and checking the locked door for himself. “D’Artagnan was to bring Aramis here for refreshments after Antoine’s funeral.”

“I gotta bad feelin’ about this,” Porthos muttered.

“Relax,” the swordsman told him. “I’m certain there’s a perfectly good-”

“Monsieur! Monsieur!” a young boy cried out as he ran quickly toward them.

Grabbing the child by the shoulders, Porthos kneeled to look the boy in the eyes.

“Whoa there, lad,” he said. “You’re runnin’ like the devil himself is after ya.”

“M-monsieur,” the boy panted breathlessly. “I have…I have a message.”

He withdrew a crumpled note from the pocket of his threadbare breeches and handed it to Athos. Quickly reading the note, shock and concern fought for dominance of the former Comte’s usually stoic demeanor.

“What is it?” Porthos asked urgently.

“We must return to the garrison at once,” Athos told him, passing several coins to the boy as he moved to remount his horse. ”Aramis and d’Artagnan have been attacked and injured in the marketplace.”

“Benoit!” Porthos hissed as he mounted his own horse.

“More than likely,” Athos replied, waiting until Porthos drew alongside.

“Remember when I said killin’ was too good for ‘im?” the larger man asked ominously. “Well, I just changed my mind.”

With a roar that sounded more like a battle cry, Porthos urged his horse into a gallop as they headed back to the garrison and their injured friends.

0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0

D’Artagnan sat on the bench outside the infirmary. With his head pounding fiercely, his slightly unfocussed eyes starred at the door to Treville’s office, as if doing so would force it to open. The young man startled and let out a pained hiss as Constance reappeared and applied a cold compress to the back of his head.

"Aww, go on with you!” she scolded gently, taking his hand and guiding it to hold the compress in place. “If you’re well enough to be sitting out here, against the physician’s orders I might add, then the least you can do is hold the compress in place.”

Understanding her tone was coloured by concern, the young man reached for her hand.

"Constance-”

“Don’t Constance me,” she continued, her hands balled into fists on her hips. “How am I supposed to feel? One minute I’m preparing pastries and the next, I’m called to the marketplace to find Aramis has been shot and you…you were lying so still that I thought…I thought…”

She looked away, eyes over-bright and unable to finish her sentence, causing d’Artagnan a pang of guilt for the worry they’d caused her.

“I’m sorry, Constance, but-”

“But nothing!” she continued, finding her voice. “If you were truly sorry you’d be following the physician’s advice and you’d both be resting in bed. Instead, Aramis goes off with Captain Treville while you…well, you know what you’re doing?”

D’Artagnan’s eyes flicked again to the door of Treville’s office.

“You’re sure he’s alright?” the Gascon asked for the third time.

Constance exhaled loudly, her anger deflating as she saw the depth of the young man’s concern.

“The doctor said he’d be fine,” she said, cupping her hand to his cheek. “He won’t be using that arm for a while but he should regain full use of it in a few weeks.”

The young woman chewed her bottom lip before she continued tentatively.

“He was a right mess when I got to the market. I’ve never seen him so distressed, he’s usually so…well, so Aramis.”

“What do you mean?” d’Artagnan frowned.

“When he couldn’t wake you, he panicked,” she replied. “Without his sight, he didn’t know how badly you were hurt. Must have been terrifying.”

D’Artagnan growled in frustration.

“I need to see him, Constance!” he said. “Are you certain you don’t know what they’re doing up there?”

“I told you,” she said suppressing her exasperation. “I was sitting with you, waiting for you to regain consciousness. The captain was speaking quietly with Aramis, then he helped him to his feet and they went to his office. He gave strict instructions that they were not to be disturbed under any circumstances.”

“What could be so important that the captain would take Aramis from the infirmary after he’d been shot?” d’Artagnan wondered. “Something’s not right.”

“The captain will see to Aramis,” Constance replied. “You need to take care of yourself.”

The sound of thundering hooves drew their attention to the gate as Athos and Porthos returned. Dismounting before their horses had properly stilled, the two men handled their horses off to the new stable boy and immediately headed toward the infirmary. They visibly relaxed when they saw d’Artagnan and Constance sitting outside.

“Are you alright?” Athos asked, taking in the younger man’s pallor and squinted eyes.

“A mild concussion,” Constance answered on his behalf. “He put quite a dent in that hard head of his.”

Athos took d’Artagnan’s chin in his hand, considered the pinched expression and bloodshot eyes and reasoned that the young man was nursing a considerable headache. Satisfied their youngest would recover, he turned his attention to their missing marksman.

“Where is Aramis?”

D’Artagnan pointed to Treville’s office and, with a curt nod, Porthos started for the stairs.

“Wait!” the Gascon called, the sound of his own raised voice ramping his headache up a notch of two.

At Porthos’ quizzical look the young man continued.

“Treville left orders that they were not to be disturbed,” he explained. “Under any circumstances.”

Porthos frowned; torn between following orders and checking on his best friend. 

“How bad is he ‘urt?” he asked.

“Relax,” Constance assured him. “He took a musket ball to the arm but the physician said he’ll make a full recovery.” 

“Then why all the secrecy?” Athos wondered aloud.

“And why can’t we see ‘im,” Porthos added.

“I have no idea,” d’Artagnan told them. “By the time I regained consciousness, they were already up there.”

Athos handed the younger man a water skin and took a seat by his side.

“Perhaps it would help if you told us what happened,” he said.

D’Artagnan nodded his head, wincing immediately and pinching the bridge of his nose. Taking a deep breath, he explained what he could of what had transpired at the marketplace before looking contritely at the older men.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should never have let this happen. I was so focused on where we were going that I never thought to look behind.”

“Oy, Benoit was an evil bastard and got what ‘e deserved,” Porthos told him, clapping the young man on the back cordially. “But you did rob me of the pleasure of sending ‘im to ‘ell.”

Constance and d’Artagnan exchanged a glance and Porthos’ eyes narrowed.

“I wish that was true,” the young man replied, a blush colouring his cheeks. “It was Aramis who shot Benoit and likely saved us both.”

Porthos’ eyes widened comically before he grinned from ear-to-ear and burst into raucous laughter.

“I told ‘im,” he said breathlessly. “All those times I made ‘im wear a blindfold and shoot bottles…I told ‘im it would come in ‘andy one day!”

The arrival of another rider drew Athos’ attention and he watched as Thierry Leon dismounted and strode toward them.

“Madame Bonacieux, gentlemen,” he said, removing his hat. “I came as soon as I could.”

As the Musketeers and Constance exchanged blank looks, the young man continued.

“I received a message that Captain Treville wanted to see me right away,” he explained.

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” Treville’s voice sounded from the landing as he carefully guided Aramis down the stairs. 

With his left arm in a sling, the marksman looked pale and shaky as he tentatively descended the first few stairs. Porthos met them halfway, wrapping an arm around Aramis’ waist as he supported him down the remaining stairs and settled him onto the bench beside d’Artagnan. The marksman mumbled his thanks before dropping his chin to his chest.

Frowning at his friend’s uncharacteristic behavior, Athos addressed the regiment’s commander.

“Captain, might I enquire why you sent for Monsieur Leon?” he asked. 

Treville cleared his throat with a small cough, surprised by his sudden hesitation, and placed his hand on Aramis’ shoulder. 

“Aramis has resigned his commission, effective immediately,” he told them. “And it is with deep regret that I have accepted.”

“No!” d’Artagnan yelled, shooting to his feet and swaying dizzily as Constance and Athos eased him back to the bench.

“Due respect, Cap’n, but you can’t do that,” Porthos told him. “He’s hurt. He obviously aint thinkin’ right.”

“On the contrary, Aramis articulated his wishes very clearly,” Treville said, turning in Thierry’s direction. “He wishes to join Monsieur Leon at his blind school. I believe your offer is still open?”

“Yes, of course,” Thierry said. “We’d be most honoured to have Aramis join us.”

“Then it’s settled,” Treville said. “Aramis wishes to leave with you tonight.”

Helping the marksman to his feet, Treville held him at arm’s length. He was suddenly reminded of the cocky and passionate young man who, many years ago, answered the call for recruits for the newly formed Musketeer regiment. 

Barely a man, Aramis was by far the youngest to apply and Treville had almost dismissed him on that basis alone. The affable youngster had already served in the infantry and was handy with a sword. In addition, be it pistol or musket, Treville had never seen a better marksman. Something about the young man reminded the captain of himself at that age and persuaded Treville to offer him a commission. It was a decision he had never regretted, despite the man’s glib tongue and infuriating penchant for finding trouble. In a rare show of emotion, Treville drew the younger man into a hug.

“Godspeed, son,” he said. “You have served France with honour and will always be welcome here at the garrison.”

Breaking from the embrace, Treville turned on his heel and hooked Thierry by the arm.

“You’ll be needing a horse and cart for the return trip,” he said, leading the younger man toward the stables and away from his stunned Musketeers.

Aramis stood stock still, his eyes blinking rapidly as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. Rarely had his friends seen him look so adrift, so brittle. But he had made a decision – perhaps the hardest of his life – and although they knew they would not dissuade him, they had to try.

Constance was the first to move, crossing the distance between them to take the marksman’s hand in hers.

“You’re sure this is what you really want?” she asked gently.

Aramis huffed a laugh that had nothing to do with humour.

“This is how it must be,” he replied, surprised at how steady his voice was. 

Smiling sadly, she stood on tiptoe and leaned in to place a chaste kiss on his cheek.  
Ever the gentleman, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it in silent thanks.

“You know, if you were always this charming, I’d have had no cause to slap you,” she teased.

Mischief flashed in the sightless brown eyes.

“Ah but where would be the fun in that?” he said, forcing a smile for her.

Silence fell upon them again and Constance gazed anxiously at the others.

“Well then,” she began, with a suspicious sniff. “You’ll be needing some things from your quarters. I’ll go and pack you a bag?”

When the sound of Constance’s footsteps faded, it was Athos who next spoke up.

“Did you not think to discuss this with us first?” Athos asked with his usual calmness.

“The decision was mine to make,” Aramis replied with a determined set to his jaw. “We all know the Musketeer garrison is no place for a man without sight. But there is life beyond the darkness and I must find my place in it.”

“I understand,” Athos said. “But must you leave immediately? Take the night, let’s discuss this further.”

Aramis shook his head.

“My mind is made up. There is no point in delaying what we all know is inevitable.”

“This would never have happened if I’d been more attentive,” d’Artagnan muttered. “Forgive me, Aramis.”

Stunned by d’Artagnan’s words, Aramis reached out blindly for the younger man and clasped his fingers around the Gascon’s wrist.

“If an apology is due, my young friend, then it is I who must offer it,” Aramis said. “Had you not been distracted by my lack of…composure, I have no doubt you would have swiftly dealt with Benoit.”

“Then why leave?” Porthos asked. “D’Artagnan told us it was you who shot Benoit.”

Aramis released a shuddering breath and carded his fingers through his dark curls in exasperation.

“It was a fortuitous shot,” he replied. “One that could easily have missed its mark and resulted in both our deaths.”

“I’ve seen you make that shot a hundred times,” the larger man said. “There’s no luck involved, just skill.”

“Bottles do not shoot back,” Aramis snapped. “And Musketeers don’t leave their brothers in the dirt unprotected. What if Benoit had not died? What if there had been another assailant? D’Artagnan was hurt and I…I could not protect him!”

The terror of what could have been shone clearly in the marksman’s eyes as he violently suppressed his fear and fisted his hands to keep them from shaking. 

“I could not protect him,” he repeated in a whisper. “And I am no longer fit…to be a Musketeer. Please, I beg of you…don’t make this harder than it already is.”

The four men fell silent, each battling their own emotions. Several long minutes later, with his heart breaking for his friend, Athos pushed off the table he’d been leaning against. Placing his hands on Aramis’ shoulders, he leaned forward until their foreheads touched.

“You may no longer be a Musketeer,” he told him. “But you are now…and forever will be…our brother.”

When the two broke apart, Porthos moved to take Athos’ place.

“Come ‘ere,” he said, his voice thick with emotion as he pulled his friend into a hug.  
“We’ll come and see you, yeah? First chance we get.”

Unable to speak around the lump in his throat, Aramis nodded his head in agreement. Porthos released him but kept his hand on his shoulder to steady him as they turned toward their youngest.

“D’Artagnan?” Aramis rasped when the young man hadn’t come forth.

Straightening his shoulders, the Gascon rose to his feet, his eyes overly bright.

“I’m here,” he said, before wrapping the marksman in a fierce hug. 

“A word to the wise,” Aramis told him. “Whatever happens, you must remain clear of Constance’s right hook. I speak from experience when I say, she packs quite a wallop.”

D’Artagnan laughed in spite of himself.

“Count yourself lucky to have avoided her knee,” the younger man quipped. “I assure you the experience is far from pleasant.”

Aramis chuckled but his expression grew serious when Thierry returned and announced that it was time to leave. Swallowing convulsively, he reached his hand out before him.

“All for one,” he said, cherishing the feel of his brother’s hands joining his.

“And one for all,” they replied with quiet strength.

Silently, they guided Aramis to the waiting cart and helped him climb aboard.

“Be well, my friends,” the marksman said as the cart moved off leaving the garrison, his life as a Musketeer and his brothers behind.

0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0

Almost a week following Aramis’ departure, Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan returned from a three day assignment, delivering important papers to the King’s second cousin, the Comte du Soissons. 

They missed Aramis terribly; his wit, his constant chatter; his ability with sword and firearm and the unequivocal trust of knowing that Aramis had their backs in any and all circumstances. The four men had formed a bond whereby they drew strength from each other, both consciously and instinctively but, without Aramis at their side, their world seemed off-kilter.

Dismounting in the compound, they flexed the muscles to relieve the stiffness in their backs and legs before taking the stairs to Treville’s office. After giving a brief report of their uneventful mission, they waited to be dismissed when Treville stood, grasping the edge of his desk and leaning forward.

“The king has declared a month of celebration in the lead-up to his birthday,” he told them. “French and European nobility are expected to attend the festivities that will be hosted at the Fontainebleau residence.”

The captain did not miss the sideway glances exchanged between his men as he continued.

“The regiment will be on full alert with all leave cancelled. You three will be part of a team assigned to guard the royal family around the clock.”

Athos signaled his understanding with a curt nod of his head.

“When is the royal family intending to leave for Fontainebleau?” he asked.

“First thing tomorrow,” the captain replied, feeling his men’s disappointment. “I know you had planned to visit Aramis but your duty to the King and to France must take precedence.”

“Of course, Captain,” d’Artagnan replied, standing a little straighter.

“I took the liberty of sending a message to Aramis, explaining your absence. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“Yes, sir,” Porthos mumbled.

“Dismissed.”

Closing the office door behind them, the Musketeers gathered on the landing.

“It’ll be more’n a month before we get to see, ‘im,” Porthos sighed.

“The captain’s right,” d’Artagnan said. “Aramis was a Musketeer. He would never put his own needs before that of the King.”

Athos winced internally as his mind flashed back to a time in a convent when Aramis had indeed placed his needs before the monarch’s. Forcing the thought from his mind, he patted the larger man on the back.

“Come,” he said. “It is likely to be a long month and I, for one, need the fortification of a good meal and a stiff drink.”

Nodding in tacit agreement, Porthos followed along behind like a kicked puppy.

0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0

Three weeks of grandiose balls, lavishly extravagant banquets and leading bombastic nobility on hunting expeditions had Porthos’ patience wearing very thin. So, when Treville needed someone to return to Paris on an errand for the king - and hinted that the route may take the messenger close to the blind school - the larger man volunteered immediately.

Stopping at a nearby epicerie to ask for directions, Porthos purchased a bag of crisp apples and some of Amaris’ favourite pastries. He fed one of the apples to his tall, bay horse and patted the velvety nose before retaking his seat in the saddle and heading north toward the blind school and his best friend.

Thierry’s school for the blind was a large building in desperate need of repair. It was situated in a quiet little village on the outskirts of Paris where the traffic was significantly less and therefore more suitable for the visually impaired residents to move about safely while learning to regain their mobility and independence.

Tethering his horse to a post at the front of the school, Porthos took his parcels from his saddle bags and walked through the open door where a young woman was seated at a large desk surrounded by mounds of paperwork.

“Bonjour, Monsieur,” she greeted cordially. “My name is Nicolette. How may I be of assistance?”

“I am Porthos, of the King’s Musketeers,” he replied. “I’m ‘ere to see Aramis.”

A look of concern and something he couldn’t define crossed the woman’s face before she nodded and got to her feet.

“You are most welcome,” she said chewing her lower lip. “But before I take you to him, you should know that Aramis is not well. He has been stricken with terrible headaches since he arrived here.”

Porthos exhaled loudly as memories of watching his friend suffer returned unbidden.

“We ‘oped those would lessen over time,” he said.

Noting the deep concern on the Musketeers face, the young woman placed her hand on his arm. 

“Come, I will take you to him.”

Porthos followed Nicolette down a long corridor as Thierry entered through the rear door. Laden with a large basin of water, he nudged the door closed with his hip and turned to see Nicolette and Porthos approaching. The lines of weariness and concern were etched into his youthful face.

“Monsieur Porthos,” Thierry said. “It is good to see you. Aramis will be pleased.”

Leaving Porthos and Thierry to talk, Nicolette took the basin into a room across the hall. The younger man gestured for Porthos to follow and they stood in the open doorway where Porthos’ gaze fell upon his ailing friend. 

Aramis’ skin was ashen and his long, dark lashes stood out starkly against his pale cheeks. His breathing labored in staccato bursts as he struggled against the pain, while sweat-dampened curls were adhered to his forehead. 

Silently, they watched as Nicolette placed the basin on the dresser and reached for the cloth soaking inside. Wringing out the excess water, she passed the cloth over Aramis’ face and neck before placing it on his forehead while she fussed with the bed linen.

Porthos’ sigh travelled from his boots.

“How long’s he been like this?” he asked.

“Almost a week,” the younger man replied. “No sooner does he recover from one headache then the next commences. I have seen many sightless people suffer from these headaches, Monsieur, but never have I seen them so incessant.”

“You called a physician, yeah?” Porthos asked.

“The village physician calls daily to check on him but…”

“But what?”

“He is a skilled healer but few physicians possess the knowledge or training needed to treat this kind of affliction,” Thierry told him.

“That’s why you were working with Lemay.”

The younger man nodded.

“Doctor Lemay is considered one of France’s most brilliant scientists. We are exceeding grateful that he and his Sorbonne colleagues choose to spend what little free time they have working with the blind.”

“But Lemay’s been with the King in Fontainebleau and unable to ‘elp,” Porthos surmised, muttering a curse under his breath.

“The tincture relieves his pain for several hours but it comes again when Aramis awakens.”

“He looks thin,” Porthos uttered, his eyes never leaving his friend.

“The pain robs him of his strength and his appetite. It’s all we can do to get him to take some broth,” the younger man placed his hand on Porthos’ arm, drawing his attention. “I fear for him, Porthos. How strong is his will?”

“The strongest,” the Musketeer replied definitively.

Nicolette rejoined the men at the door; her ministrations completed.

“He is waking,” she said. “I have prepared another dose of tincture and placed it on the dresser should he need it.

“Will you join us for supper?” Thierry asked the Musketeer.

“I can’t stay,” Porthos replied, his conflict evident. “I’m due back at Fontainebleau tonight.”

“Sit with him,” Thierry said. “He will be glad of your company. We will be in the kitchen should you need anything.”

Nodding his head, Porthos took a minute to gather himself before entering the small room and quietly lowering himself into the chair by Aramis’ bed. The younger man’s handsome face was etched with lines of pain as his dark eyes opened to slits. 

“What’s this then, ey?” Porthos asked gently. “A few weeks out of the regiment and you’re sleepin’ passed noon.”

Aramis’ lips twitched into a small grin as he recognized his friend’s voice. His intended reply faltered when he could only emit a gravelly croak. 

Slipping one large hand gently under the younger man’s head, Porthos lifted a cup of water to Aramis’ lips, assisting him to take a few sips. The marksman offered his thanks with a barely perceptible nod of his head. 

“Making up…for those nights at camp…your snoring…robbed me of sleep,” Aramis rasped; the sound of his own whispered voice reverberating painfully in his head.

“Oy! I’ve told you before…I don’t snore,” Porthos protested quietly, noting his friend’s discomfort.

Reaching out his hand, Aramis felt the solid form of his friend’s broad shoulders and was almost overwhelmed. He’d missed his friends; more than he’d thought possible.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he told the larger man.

“Told you I’d come, didn’t I?” Porthos asked.

The marksman placed both hands over his heart in a silent expression of his gratitude.

“The others?” he asked.

“Still on guard duty at Fontainebleau,” Porthos replied. “I ‘ad to run an errand for the King and thought I’d see what kind of trouble you was causing before I went back.”

Aramis gasped loudly as another wave of excruciating pain engulfed him, stealing his breath. He gritted his teeth and locked his jaw trying to silence the groan that forced its way from his throat. From what seemed a great distance, he heard Porthos calling his name before he felt his head lifted and tasted the bitterness of the tincture. 

“Easy ‘Mis…just breathe through it, yeah?” Porthos told him; his presence grounding the younger man.

Several moments passed until Aramis brought his breathing under control. Exhausted by the exertion, he sunk back into the pillow and turned his head toward his friend, a myriad of emotions reflecting in his sightless brown eyes.

“The pain grows worse,” he whispered despairingly. "I cannot live like this, my friend.”

Porthos placed his hands either side of the marksman’s face.

“You listen to me,” he said. “I know you’re hurtin’ but you gotta hang on, yeah? I’m goin’ to get Lemay…he’ll know how to fix this. Promise me, ‘Mis…promise me you’ll hang on till Lemay gets ‘ere.”

“I…I promise,” Aramis whispered as the tincture did its job and sleep mercifully reached out and took him.

Porthos gently brushed the damp hair from the forehead of his sleeping friend before resting his hand on the crown of the younger man’s head.

“I’ll be back, ‘Mis, just hold on,” he vowed before turning on his heel and striding purposefully for the door.

0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0

The order to halt travelled forward from soldier to soldier to where Porthos was leading the Royal cortege back to Paris. Leaving two Musketeers guarding the front carriage, he rode back passed several others before reining his horse in by d’Artagnan’s side.

“What’s the ‘old up?” he asked, anxious to keep moving.

“His Majesty wishes to stretch his legs - again,” the younger man nodded to where the King was wondering aimlessly, Athos by his side, ever alert and scouring the area for possible threats.

“He stretched his legs five miles back,” the larger man hissed. “He keeps this up and it’ll take us a week to get back.”

D’Artagnan shrugged his shoulders; they both knew that when the monarch was in one of his moods, there was very little that could be done. 

FLASHBACK  
It had been three days since Porthos had returned to Fontainebleau with news of Aramis’ worsening condition. It had taken another maddening day before Treville and the queen had been able to convince the king to allow his personal physician to return to Paris to treat Aramis.

“Lemay is my personal physician,” the King had complained. “What if I fall from my horse or become ill?”

“Sire, everyone knows that you are among the finest horsemen in all of France,” the Queen cajoled, “And you are as healthy as you are handsome.”

The King smiled a toothy grin.

“Well,” he conceded. “There is that.”

“Can we not spare Lemay for a day or two as a continuing gesture of His Majesty’s magnanimity?” the Queen continued.

The king had reluctantly agreed and Lemay had left for the blind school the next morning, travelling part-way with Treville who returned to overview the palace security for the monarch’s return.  
END FLASHBACK

“I know you’re worried about Aramis,” d’Artagnan told him. “We all are. But had anything had happened, Treville would have sent word.”

Porthos nodded.

“You’re right,” he said.

After escorting the king back into his carriage, Athos remounted his horse and joined the others.

“The King is ready to continue,” he told d’Artagnan and Porthos. “I suggest we proceed before he changes his mind.”

0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0

It was late afternoon by the time the cortege arrived back at the palace and Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan escorted the royal family safely to their private chambers.  
Although the absence of Treville had, thankfully, gone unnoticed by the King, the Musketeers grew increasingly concerned when Pichon, Etienne and Mallet approached to relieve them, their expressions set in stone. Instinctively suspecting trouble, Athos squared his shoulders.

“Where is Captain Treville?” he asked.

Pichon cleared his throat before answering.

“He was called to the blind school this morning,” he replied. 

“Aramis?” Porthos said. “What happened?”

“We don’t know,” Mallet replied. “Only that the captain requests you join him there immediately.”

Within minutes d’Artagnan, Athos and Porthos were all riding hard for the outskirts of Paris and their companion, all suppressing their fear for Aramis’ welfare. They arrived at the blind school, handing off their exhausted horses to an elderly man who had obviously been waiting for them.

“I’ll take your ‘orses, gents,” he told them. “Go on inside, the Cap’n is waiting for you.”

Each taking a deep breath to steel themselves, they followed Porthos through the front door and down the long corridor where Treville, Doctor Lemay and Thierry were talking quietly in the kitchen. The conversation stopped abruptly at their arrival, filling all three with overwhelming dread.

“I’m glad you’re here,” the captain told them somberly. “He’s been asking for you.”

Treville led them to the doorway of Aramis’ room and a gasp tore from d’Artagnan’s lips as his vision adjusted and he saw his friend laying on the bed as still as a stone effigy. The marksman's face was colourless, save for the crescent-shaped bruising located under each eye. 

“Lemay has administered a tonic to help him sleep,” the captain said. “Don’t overtax him.”

Nodding their understanding, the Musketeers walked into the darkened room and sat either side of the bed. Reaching out tentatively, Athos gently cupped his friend's cheek.

"Aramis?" he said softly.

It took three attempts but the marksman finally managed to open his heavy eyelids. Athos grasped the younger man’s hand in his own, squeezing for his own comfort as much as Aramis’.

“We’re here, my brother,” Athos said. 

“All of us, ‘Mis,” Porthos told him. “We’re all ‘ere.”

“For whatever you need,” d’Artagnan added. 

Aramis turned his head toward Athos’ voice and gave him crooked smile that could have been attributed to the medication.

"Never thought…I'd say this…my friends,” he whispered. “But you are…you are a sight for sore eyes."

The look on his friends’ faces as the realisation struck, brought a genuine but weary smile to the marksman’s face.

"Wait…you can see?" Porthos asked.

Aramis’ gaze moved directly to the larger man’s. Swallowing convulsively around the huge lump that settled uncomfortably in his throat, he cleared his throat twice before he found his voice.

"Yes,” he rasped, “I can see.”

Athos turned his face to the wall; unwilling to put his raw emotion on show. Much less inhibited, d’Artagnan’s dark eyes shimmered with joy while Porthos stared, open-mouthed, at his friend.

“If you aren’t the luckiest bastard I ever met…” he said, enveloping the younger man in a hug.

Athos turned to his commanding officer, noting the rare smile on Treville’s face.

“Captain,” Athos said. “How is this possible?”

Treville gave an uncharacteristic shrug.

“We cannot explain it,” he said. “When Aramis’ condition deteriorated, Lemay feared the worst. But this morning his headaches eased and he could determine light and darkness and, by early afternoon, colour and movement. His eyes remain sensitive to light and he will need time to recover his strength but Lemay is confident Aramis will recover fully.”

Porthos eased his friend back against the pillow as Aramis battled against the medication to stay awake.

“So, that means he can rejoin the regiment, yes?” d’Artagnan asked 

“Aramis resigned his commission,” Treville said. “Only the King can decide whether-” 

“Cap’n,” Porthos interjected. “You gotta convince the King to take ‘im back." 

Not used to being interrupted, Treville shot the larger man a steely look prompting the former Comte to offer his support.

“With all due respect, Captain,” Athos said. “Given the extenuating circumstances, perhaps you could persuade the King to reinstate Aramis’ commission.”

“I know of no other occasion when the King has been so inclined,” Treville stated.

He watched as the shoulders of his four best men, his Inseparables, slumped in despondency and he gave a quick grin as he continued.

“Therefore, it is fortuitous that I did not process Aramis’ resignation,” he said before turning to address his marksman. “If you were serious about resigning your commission, son, you should have put your request in writing.”

“Yes, Captain,” Aramis smiled his dark eyes reflecting his silent gratitude.

“You have ten minutes,” Treville told them, pointing at Aramis with his chin. “He needs his rest if he’s to travel back to the garrison with us tomorrow.”

Grinning from ear-to-ear, d’Artagnan continued to shake his head.

“This is…incredible,” he said to Aramis. “You really can see?”

“Well enough to know that Athos now carries my gauche, Porthos my pistols and you, my young friend, are wearing my doublet,” Aramis said around a large yawn.

The Musketeers traded guilty looks before Athos cleared his throat.

“There is no sense in wasting a good weapon,” he replied haughtily

“Er, yeah, what ‘e said,” Porthos added.

D’Artagnan shifted his weight from foot to foot, desperately searching for an explanation.

“It's…um…it’s laundry day?” he offered hopefully.

Aramis smiled mischievously and dropped his head back onto the pillows.

“One might be forgiven for interpreting the gesture as testament to how much you missed me,” he grinned.

“Certainly not,” Athos replied definitively, before offering a one shoulder shrug and a wry smile. "Well…perhaps a little.”

As the conversations continued around him Aramis looked at the odd little group – there were no genetic or blood ties but they shared a bond that few families ever achieve. He felt an overwhelming sense of quiet gratitude that these men had come into his life, sharing their friendship, their humour and their strong sense of loyalty. They were his anchor and his touchstone whenever his life threatened to careen out of control.

Pulling free from his thoughts, he found his friends watching him with concerned eyes and for a long moment, he held their gaze - not as soldiers but as brothers. Speaking from the heart without uttering a word, he thanked them for their unwavering support. Warmed by the unspoken sentiment, Porthos and d’Artagnan beamed a smile in return, while a rare grin lifted the corners of Athos mouth - message received and understood.

Aramis leaned back against his pillows once more and allowed his friends' easy conversations and soft laughter to wash over him as he gave in to the pull of the medication and was lulled into a restful sleep.

The End  
0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0—0oo00oo0

Footnote: Although I am not partial to stories involving unexplained or “miracle recoveries,” it is fair to say that, in the 17th Century, scientists and physicians had not known of Neurological Vision Impairment. 

This condition, also called cortical blindness, is a loss of vision resulting from an acquired brain injury or head trauma. NVI can be temporary or permanent depending on the degree of damage to the area of the visual cortex or posterior visual pathways of the brain. 

The eyes may function normally, however, the visual systems of the brain do not consistently understand or interpret what the eyes see. If the visual cortex and optic nerves are crushed by the concussion and swelling of the brain, sight will never return.

However, if the brain can recover from this injury without damaging the visual cortex, as the swelling subsides, vision may return. This can also cause excruciating headaches.  
In Aramis’ case (and due to my overwhelming desire to have a happy ending,) I have chosen the second option which, in this time-period, would likely have been viewed as a “miracle recovery.” 

I am so humbled that you have chosen to travel the course of this story with me and very grateful for your support and encouragement along the way. I truly hope you enjoyed it. Thanks, also, for including me in your prayers and good wishes, I'm overwhelmed. Gabby

**Author's Note:**

> **Salt of hartshorn refers to ammonium carbonate, an early form of smelling salts commonly used in the 17th century.


End file.
